THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


^'.^^ 


'r-.  ■'_>  ■■■-■■,•(      .r  ■-  *   ■  ■        ■  .  > 


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HOURS    IN    A    LIBRARY 

VOL.   I. 


WORKS    BY    LESLIE    STEPHEN. 


THE      LIFE      OF      SIR      JAMES      FITZJAMES 

STEPHEN,  Bart.,  K.C.S.L,  a  Judge  of  the  High  Court  of 
Justice.     With  2  Portraits.     Second  Edition.     Demy  8vo.  i6.r. 

LIFE  OF  HENRY  FAWCETT.  With  2  Steel 
Portraits.     Fifth  Edition.     Large  crown  8vo.  12s.  6d. 

THE  SCIENCE  OF  ETHICS  :  an  Essay  upon 
Ethical  Theory,  as  Modified  by  the  Doctrine  of  Evolution. 
Demy  8vo.  i6s. 

A  HISTORY  OF  ENGLISH  THOUGHT  IN  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.  Second  Edition.  2  vols. 
Demy  8vo.  28^. 

HOURS    IN    A    LIBRARY.      Revised,  Rearranged, 

and  Cheaper  Edition.     In  3  vols,  crown  8vo.  6s.  each. 

AN  AGNOSTIC'S  APOLOGY,  and  other  Essays. 
Large  crown  8vo.  10^.  6ii. 


London  :  SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  Waterloo  Place. 


HOURS    IN    A    LIBRARY 


BY 

LESLIE    STEPHEN 


NEJV    EDITION 


IN    THREE    VOLUMES 
VOL.    I. 


LONDON 
SMLFH,  ELDER,  &   CO.,  15  WATERLOO   TLACE 

1899 

[All     rights    reserved] 


^'1 


CONTENTS 

OF 

THE     FIRST     VOLUME 

^  -  I'ACE 

M 

^   De  Foe's  Novels i 

J    Richardson's  Novels 47 

^     Pope  as  a  Moralist 94 

Sir  Walter  Scott 137 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 169 

Balzac's  Novels 199 

De  Quincey 237 

Sir  Thomas  Browne 269 

Jonathan  Edwards 300 

Horace  Walpole 345 


y> 


519 


OPINIONS   OF  AUTHORS 


Libraries  are  as  the  shrines  where  all  the  relics  of  the  ancient 
saints,  full  of  true  virtue,  and  that  without  delusion  or  imposture, 
are  preserved  and  reposed.— Bacon,  Advancement  of  Learning. 

We  visit  at  the  shrine,  drink  in  some  measure  of  the  inspira- 
tion, and  cannot  easilybreathe  in  other  air  less  pure,  accustomed 
to  immortal  fruits. — Hazlitt's  Plain  Speaker. 

What  a  place  to  be  in  is  an  old  library  !  It  seems  as  though 
all  the  souls  of  all  the  writers  that  have  bequeathed  their  labours 
to  the  Bodleian  were  reposing  here  as  in  some  dormitory  or 
middle  state.  I  seem  to  inhale  learning,  walking  amid  their 
foliage  ;  and  the  odour  of  their  old  moth-scented  coverings  is 
fragrant  as  the  first  bloom  of  the  sciential  apples  which  grew 
around  the  happy  orchard. — Charles  Lami;,  Oxford  in  the 
Long  Vacation. 

My  neighbours  think  me  often  alone,  and  yet  at  such  times 
I  am  in  company  with  more  than  five  hundred  mutes,  each  of 
whom  communicates  his  ideas  to  me  by  dumb  signs  quite  as 
intelligibly  as  any  person  living  can  do  by  uttering  of  words  ;  and 
with  a  motion  of  my  hand  I  can  bring  them  as  near  to  me  as  I 
please  ;  I  handle  them  as  I  like  ;  they  never  complain  of  ill- 
usage  ;  and  when  dismissed  from  my  presence,  though  ever  so 
abruptly,  take  no  offence. — Sterne,  Letters. 

In  a  library  we  are  surrounded  by  many  hundreds  of  dear 
friends  imprisoned  by  an  enchanter  in  paper  and  leathern 
boxes.— Emerson,  Books,  Society,  a?id  Solitude. 


viii  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

Nothing  is  pleasanter  than  exploring  in  a  Hbrary. — Landor, 
Pericles  and  Aspasia. 

I  never  come  into  a  Hbrary  (saith  Heinsius)  but  I  bolt  the 
door  to  me,  excluding  lust,  ambition,  avarice,  and  all  such  vices 
whose  nurse  is  idleness,  the  mother  of  ignorance  and  melan- 
choly herself ;  and  in  the  very  lap  of  eternity,  among  so  many 
divine  souls,  I  take  my  seat  with  so  lofty  a  spirit  and  sweet 
content  that  I  pity  all  our  great  ones  and  rich  men  that  know 
not  their  happiness. — BURTON,  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  am  happiest  when  alone  ;  but  this  I 
am  sure  of,  that  I  am  never  long  even  in  the  society  of  her  I 
love  without  a  yearning  for  the  company  of  my  lamp  and  my 
utterly  confused  and  tumbled-over  library. — Byron,  Moore's 
Life. 

Montesquieu  used  to  say  that  he  had  never  known  a  pain  or 
a  distress  which  he  could  not  soothe  by  half  an  hour  of  a  good 
book. — John  Morley,  On  Popular  Culture. 

There  is  no  truer  word  than  that  of  Solomon  :  '  There  is  no 
end  of  making  books '  ;  the  sight  of  a  great  libraiy  verifies  it  ; 
there  is  no  end— indeed,  it  were  pity  there  should  be. — BiSHOP 
Hall. 

You  that  are  genuine  Athenians,  devour  with  a  golden 
Epicurism  the  arts  and  sciences,  the  spirits  and  extractions  of 
authors. — Culverwell,  Light  of  Nature. 

He  hath  never  fed  of  the  dainties  that  are  bred  in  a  book  ; 
he  hath  not  eat  paper,  as  it  were  ;  he  hath  not  drunk  ink  ;  his 
intellect  is  not  replenished  ;  he  is  only  an  animal,  only  sensible 
in  the  duller  parts. — Shakespeare,  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

I  have  wondered  at  the  patience  of  the  antediluvians  ;  their 
libraries  were  insufficiently  furnished  ;  how  then  could  seven  or 
eight  hundred  years  of  life  be  supportable  ? — Cowper,  Life  a?ui 
Letters  by  Southey. 

Unconfused  Babel  of  all  tongues  I  which  e'er 

The  mighty  linguist  Fame  or  Time  the  mighty  traveller, 


OPINIONS   OF  AUTHORS  ix 

That  could  speak  or  this  could  hear  ! 
Majestic  monument  and  pyramid  ! 
Where  still  the  shapes  of  parted  souls  abide 
Embalmed  in  verse  ;  exalted  souls  which  now 
Enjoy  those  arts  they  wooed  so  well  below, 

Which  now  all  wonders  plainly  see 

That  have  been,  are,  or  are  to  be 
In  the  mysterious  Library, 
The  beatific  Bodley  of  the  Deity ! 

Cowley,  Ode  on  the  Bodlciaf?. 

This  to  a  structure  led  well  known  to  fame, 

And  called,  'The  Monument  of  Vanished  Minds,' 
Where  when  they  thought  they  saw  in  well-sought  books 

The  assembled  souls  of  all  that  men  thought  wise, 
It  bred  such  awful  reverence  in  their  looks, 

As  if  they  saw  the  buried  writers  rise. 
Such  heaps  of  written  thought  ;  gold  of  the  dead, 

Which  Time  does  still  disperse  but  not  devour. 
Made  them  presume  all  was  from  deluge  freed 

Which  long-lived  authors  writ  ere  Noah's  shower. 

Davenant,  Condibert. 

Books  are  not  absolutely  dead  things,  but  do  contain  a 
progeny  of  life  in  them,  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  whose 
progeny  they  are  ;  nay,  they  do  preserve  as  in  a  vial  the  purest 
efficacy  and  extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that  bred  them. 
— M I  ETON,  A  reopagitica. 

Nor  is  there  any  paternal  fondness  which  seems  to  savour 
less  of  absolute  instinct,  and  which  may  be  so  well  reconciled 
to  worldly  wisdom,  as  this  of  authors  for  their  books.  These 
children  may  most  truly  be  called  the  riches  of  their  father,  and 
many  of  them  have  with  true  filial  piety  fed  their  parent  in  his 
old  age  ;  so  that  not  only  the  affection  but  the  interest  of  the 
author  may  be  highly  injured  by  those  slanderers  whose 
poisonous  breath  brings  his  book  to  an  untimely  end. — 
Fielding,  Tom  Jones. 


X  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

We  whom  the  world  is  pleased  to  honour  with  the  title  of 
modern  authors  should  never  have  been  able  to  compass  our 
great  design  of  everlasting  remembrance  and  never-dying  fame 
if  our  endeavours  had  not  been  so  highly  serviceable  to  the 
general  good  of  mankind. — SwiFT,  Tale  of  a  Tub. 

A  good  library  always  makes  me  melancholy,  where  the  best 
author  is  as  much  squeezed  and  as  obscure  as  a,  porter  at  a 
coronation.  — Swift. 

In  my  youth  I  never  entered  a  great  library  but  my  pre- 
dominant feeling  was  one  of  pain  and  disturbance  of  mind — 
not  much  unlike  that  which  drew  tears  from  Xerxes  on  viewing 
his  immense  army,  and  reflecting  that  in  one  hundred  years 
not  one  soul  would  remain  alive.  To  me,  with  respect  to  books, 
the  same  effect  would  be  brought  about  by  my  own  death. 
Here,  said  I,  are  one  hundred  thousand  books,  the  worst  of 
them  capable  of  giving  me  some  instruction  and  pleasure  ;  and 
before  I  can  have  had  time  to  extract  the  honey  from  one- 
twentieth  of  this  hive  in  all  likelihood  I  shall  be  summoned 
away. — De  Quincey,  Letter-  to  a  young  man. 

A  man  may  be  judged  by  his  library. — Bentham. 

I  ever  look  upon  a  library  with  the  reverence  of  a  temple. — 
Evelyn,  to  Wot  ton. 

'  Father,  I  should  like  to  learn  to  make  gold.'  'And  what 
would'st  thou  do  if  thou  could'st  make  it .'"  '  Why,  I  would 
build  a  great  house  and  fill  it  with  books.' — Southey,  Doctor. 

What  would  you  have  more  ?  A  wife  ?  That  is  none  of  the 
indispensable  requisites  of  life.  Books  ?  That  is  one  of  them, 
and  I  have  more  than  I  can  use. — David  Hume,  Burton's 
'Life: 

Talk  of  the  happiness  of  getting  a  great  prize  in  the  lottery  ! 
What  is  that  to  opening  a  box  of  books  .''  The  joy  upon  lifting 
up  the  cover  must  be  something  like  that  which  we  shall  feel 
when  Peter  the  porter  opens  the  door  upstairs,  and  says, '  Please 
to  walk  in.  Sir.' — Southey,  Life. 


OPINIONS  OF  AUTHORS  xi 

I  would  rather  be  a  poor  man  in  a  garret  with  plenty  of 
books  than  a  king-  who  did  not  love  reading. — Macaulav. 

Our  books  ....  do  not  our  hearts  hug  them,  and  quiet 
themselves  in  them  even  more  than  in  God.'' — Baxter's  Sainfs 
Rest. 

It  is  our  duty  to  live  among  books.— Newman,  Tracts  for 
the  Times,  N'o.  2. 

What  lovely  things  books  are  ! — Buckle,  Life  by  Hiith. 

(Query)  Whether  the  collected  wisdom  of  all  ages  and 
nations  be  not  found  in  l)ooks  ? — Berkeley,  Querist. 

Read  wc  must,  be  writers  ever  so  indifferent. — Shaftesbury, 
Characteristics. 

It's  mighty  hard  to  write  nowadays  without  getting  something 
or  other  worth  listening  to  into  your  essay  or  your  volume. 
The  foolishest  book  is  a  kind  of  leaky  boat  on  a  sea  of  wisdom  ; 
some  of  the  wisdom  will  get  in  anyhow. — O.  W.  HOLMES,  Poet 
at  the  Breakfast  Table. 

I  adopted  the  tolerating  measure  of  the  elder  Pliny — 
'  nullum  esse  librum  tam  malum  ut  non  in  aliqua  parte  prp- 
desset.'— Gibbon,  Autobiography. 

A  book's  a  book,  although  there's  nothing  in't. — Byron, 
English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers. 

While  you  converse  with  lords  and  dukes, 
I  have  their  betters  here,  my  books  ; 
Fixed  in  an  elbow  chair  at  ease 
I  choose  companions  as  I  please. 
I'd  rather  have  one  single  shelf 
Than  all  my  friends,  except  yourself. 
For,  after  all  that  can  be  said. 
Our  best  companions  are  the  dead. 

Sheridan  to  Swift. 

We  often  hear  of  people  who  will  descend  to  any  servility, 
submit  to  any  insult  for  the  sake  of  getting  themselves  or  their 


xii  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

children  into  what  is  euphemistically  called  good  society.  Did 
it  ever  occur  to  them  that  there  is  a  select  society  of  all  the 
centuries  to  which  they  and  theirs  can  be  admitted  for  the 
asking  ? — Lowell,  Speech  at  Chelsea. 

On  all  sides  are  we  not  driven  to  the  conclusion  that  of  all 
things  which  men  can  do  or  make  here  below,  by  far  the  most 
momentous,  wonderful,  and  worthy  are  the  things  we  call 
books  ?  For,  indeed,  is  it  not  verily  the  highest  act  of  man's 
faculty  that  produces  a  book?  It  is  the  thought  of  man.  The 
true  thaumaturgic  virtue  by  which  man  marks  all  things  what- 
ever. All  that  he  does  and  brings  to  pass  is  the  vesture  of  a 
book. — Carlvle,  Hero  Worship. 

Yet  it  is  just 
That  here  in  memory  of  all  books  which  lay 
Their  sure  foundations  in  the  heart  of  man, 

****** 
That  I  should  here  assert  their  rights,  assert 
Their  honours,  and  should,  once  for  all,  pronounce 
Their  benediction,  speak  of  them  as  powers 
For  ever  to  be  hallowed  ;  only  less 
For  what  we  are  and  what  we  may  become 
Than  Nature's  self,  which  is  the  breath  of  God 
Or  His  pure  word  by  miracle  revealed. 

Wordsworth,  Prelude. 


Take  me  to  some  lofty  room, 

Lighted  from  the  western  sky, 
Where  no  glare  dispels  the  gloom. 

Till  the  golden  eve  is  nigh  ; 
Where  the  works  of  searching  thought. 

Chosen  books,  may  still  impart 
What  the  wise  of  old. have  taught, 

What  has  tried  the  meek  of  heart  ; 
Books  in  long  dead  tongues  that  stirred 

Loving  hearts  in  other  climes  ; 
Telling  to  my  eyes,  unheard, 

Glorious  deeds  of  olden  times  : 


OPLV/OJVS   OF  AUTHORS  xiii 

Books  that  purify  the  thought, 
Spirits  of  the  learned  dead, 
Teachers  of  the  httle  taught. 
Comforters  when  friends  are  fled. 

Barnes,  Poems  of  Rural  Life. 

A  library  is  like  a  butcher's  shop  ;  it  contains  plenty  of 
meat,  but  it  is  all  raw  ;  no  person  living  can  find  a  meal  in  it 
till  some  good  cook  comes  along  and  says,  '  Sir,  I  see  by  your 
looks  that  you  are  hungry  ;  I  know  your  taste  ;  be  patient  for 
a  moment  and  you  shall  be  satisfied  that  you  have  an  excellent 
appetite  ! ' — G.  Ellis,  Lockharfs  '  Scott' 

A    library   is    itself    a    cheap    university. — H.    SiDGWiCK 
Political  Ecofioiny. 

O  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live 

Once  he  had  mastered  all  that  books  can  give  ! 

Browning. 

I  will  bury  myself  in  my  books  and  the  devil  may  pipe  to 
his  own. — Tennyson. 

Words  !  words  !  words  I — Shakespeare. 


HOURS    IN    A    LIBRARY 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS 

According  to  the  high  authority  of  Charles  Lamb,  it  has 
sometimes  happened  '  that  from  no  inferior  merit  in  the 
rest,  but  from  some  superior  good  fortune  in  the  choice  of 
a  subject,  some  single  work '  (of  a  particular  author)  '  shall 
have  been  suffered  to  eclipse,  and  cast  into  the  shade,  the 
deserts  of  its  less  fortunate  brethren.'  And  after  quoting 
the  case  of  Bunyan's  '  Holy  War,'  as  compared  with  the 
'  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  he  adds  that,  '  in  no  instance  has  this 
excluding  partiality  been  exerted  with  more  unfairness  than 
against  what  may  be  termed  the  secondary  novels  or 
romances  of  De  Foe.'  He  proceeds  to  declare  that  there 
are  at  least  four  other  fictitious  narratives  by  the  same 
writer — '  Roxana,'  '  Singleton,'  '  Moll  Flanders,'  and 
'  Colonel  Jack  ' — which  possess  an  interest  not  inferior  to 
'  Robinson  Crusoe  ' — '  except  what  results  from  a  less 
felicitous  choice  of  situation.'  Granting  most  unreservedly 
that  the  same  hand  is  perceptible  in  the  minor  novels  as  in 
'  Robinson  Crusoe,'  and  that  they  bear  at  every  page  the 
most  unequivocal  symptoms  of  De  Foe's  workmanship,  I 
venture  to  doubt  the  'partiality  '  and  the  'unfairness'  of 

VOL.    I.  B 


2  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

preferring  to  them  their  more  popular  rival.  The  instinctive 
judgment  of  the  world  is  not  really  biassed  by  anything 
except  the  intrinsic  power  exerted  by  a  book  over  its  sym- 
pathies ;  and  as  in  the  long  run  it  has  honoured  '  Robinson 
Crusoe,'  in  spite  of  the  critics,  and  has  comparatively 
neglected  '  Roxana'and  the  companion  stories,  there  is  pro- 
bably some  good  cause  for  the  distinction.  The  apparent 
injustice  to  books  resembles  what  we  often  see  in  the 
case  of  men.  A.  B.  becomes  Lord  Chancellor,  whilst  C.  D. 
remains  for  years  a  briefless  barrister ;  and  yet  for  the 
life  of  us  we  cannot  tell  but  that  C.  D.  is  the  abler  man 
of  the  two.  Perhaps  he  was  wanting  m  some  one  of  the 
less  conspicuous  elements  that  are  essential  to  a  successful 
career  ;  he  said  '  Open,  wheat  ! '  instead  of  '  Open,  sesame  ! ' 
and  the  barriers  remained  unaffected  by  his  magic.  The 
secret  may  really  be  simple  enough.  The  complete  success 
of  such  a  book  as  '  Robinson  '  implies,  it  may  be,  the  precise 
adaptation  of  the  key  to  every  ward  of  the  lock.  The  felici- 
tous choice  of  situation  to  which  Lamb  refers  gave  just  the 
required  fitness  \  and  it  is  of  little  use  to  plead  that '  Roxana,' 
'Colonel  Jack,'  and  others  might  have  done  the  same  trick 
if  only  they  had  received  a  little  filing,  or  some  slight 
change  in  shape  :  a  shoemaker  might  as  well  argue  that  if 
you  had  only  one  toe  less  his  shoes  wouldn't  pinch  you. 

To  leave  the  unsatisfactory  ground  of  metaphor,  we  may 
find  out,  on  examination,  that  De  Foe  had  discovered  in 
'  Robinson  Crusoe '  precisely  the  field  in  which  his  talents 
could  be  most  effectually  applied  ;  and  that  a  very  slight 
alteration  in  the  subject-matter  might  change  the  merit  of 
his  work  to  a  disproportionate  extent.  The  more  special 
the  idiosyncrasy  upon  which  a  man's  literary  success  is 
founded,  the  greater,  of  course,  the  probability  that  a  small 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  3 

change  will  disconcert  him.  A  man  who  can  only  perform 
upon  the  drum  will  have  to  wait  for  certain  combinations  of 
other  instruments  before  his  special  talent  can  be  turned  to 
account.  Now,  the  talent  in  which  De  Foe  surpasses  all 
other  writers  is  just  one  of  those  peculiar  gifts  which  must 
wait  for  a  favourable  chance.  When  a  gentleman,  in  a  fairy 
story,  has  a  power  of  seeing  a  hundred  miles,  or  covering 
seven  leagues  at  a  stride,  we  know  that  an  opportunity  will 
speedily  occur  for  putting  his  faculties  to  use.  But  the 
gentleman  with  the  seven-leagued  boots  is  useless  when  the 
occasion  offers  itself  for  telescopic  vision,  and  the  eyes  are 
good  for  nothing  without  the  power  of  locomotion.  To  De 
Foe,  if  we  may  imitate  the  language  of  the  '  Arabian 
Nights,'  was  given  a  tongue  to  which  no  one  could  listen 
without  believing  every  word  that  he  uttered — a  qualifica- 
tion, by  the  way,  which  would  serve  its  owner  far  more 
effectually  in  this  commonplace  world  than  swords  of  sharp- 
ness or  cloaks  of  darkness,  or  other  fairy  paraphernalia.  In 
other  words,  he  had  the  most  marvellous  power  ever  known 
of  giving  verisimilitude  to  his  fictions  ;  or,  it  other  words 
again,  he  had  the  most  amazing  talent  on  record  for  telling 
lies.  We  have  all  read  how  the  '  History  of  the  Plague,' 
the  '  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,'  and  even,  it  is  said,  '  Robinson 
Crusoe,'  have  succeeded  in  passing  themselves  off  for  veri- 
table narratives.  The  'Memoirs  of  Captain  Carleton'  long 
passed  for  De  Foe's,  but  the  Captain  has  now  gained  admis- 
sion to  the  biographical  dictionary  and  is  credited  with  his 
own  memoirs.  In  either  case,  it  is  as  characteristic  that  a 
genuine  narrative  should  be  attributed  to  De  Foe,  as  that 
De  Foe's  narrative  should  be  taken  as  genuine.  An  odd 
testimony  to  De  Foe's  powers  as  a  liar  (a  word  for  which 
there  is,  unfortunately,  no  equivalent  that  does  not  imply 

B  2 


4  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

some  blame)  has  been  mentioned.  Mr.  M'Queen,  quoted 
in  Captain  Burton's  'Nile  Basin,'  names  'Captain  Singleton  ' 
as  a  genuine  account  of  travels  in  Central  Africa,  and 
seriously  mentions  De  Foe's  imaginary  pirate  as  '  a  claimant 
for  the  honour  of  the  discovery  of  the  sources  of  the  White 
Nile.'  Probably,  however,  this  only  proves  that  Mr. 
M'Queen  had  never  read  the  book. 

Most  of  the  literary  artifices  to  which  De  Foe  owed  his 
power  of  producing  this  illusion  are  sufificiently  plain.  Of 
all  the  fictions  which  he  succeeded  in  palming  off  for  truths 
none  is  more  instructive  than  that  admirable  ghost,  Mrs. 
Veal.  Like  the  sonnets  of  some  great  poets,  it  contains  in 
a  few  lines  all  the  essential  peculiarities  of  his  art,  and  an 
admirable  commentary  has  been  appended  to  it  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  The  first  device  which  strikes  us  is  his  inge- 
nious plan  for  manufacturing  corroborative  evidence.  The 
ghost  appears  to  Mrs.  Bargrave.  The  story  of  the  appari- 
tion is  told  by  a  'very  sober  and  understanding  gentle- 
woman, who  lives  within  a  few  doors  of  Mrs.  Bargrave;' 
and  the  character  of  this  sober  gentlewoman  is  supported 
by  the  testimony  of  a  justice  of  the  peace  at  Maidstone,  'a 
very  intelligent  person.'  This  elaborate  chain  of  evidence 
is  intended  to  divert  our  attention  from  the  obvious  circum- 
stance that  the  whole  story  rests  upon  the  authority  of  the 
anonymous  person  who  tells  us  of  the  sober  gentlewoman, 
who  supports  Mrs.  Bargrave,  and  is  confirmed  by  the  intelli- 
gent justice.  Simple  as  the  artifice  appears,  it  is  one  which 
is  constantly  used  in  supernatural  stories  of  the  present  day. 
One  of  those  improving  legends  tells  how  a  ghost  appeared 
to  two  officers  in  Canada,  and  how,  subsequently,  one  of 
the  officers  met  the  ghost's  twin  brother  in  London,  and 
straightway  exclaimed,  '  You  are  the  person  who  appeared 


DE   FOE'S  NOVELS  5 

to  me  in  Canada  ! '  Many  people  are  diverted  from  the 
weak  part  of  the  story  by  this  ingenious  confirmation,  and, 
in  their  surprise  at  the  coherence  of  the  narrative,  forget 
that  the  narrative  itself  rests  upon  entirely  anonymous 
evidence.  A  chain  is  no  stronger  than  its  weakest  link  ; 
but  if  you  show  how  admirably  the  last  few  are  united 
together,  half  the  world  will  forget  to  test  the  security  of 
the  equally  essential  links  which  are  kept  out  of  sight.  De 
Foe  generally  repeats  a  similar  trick  in  the  prefaces  of  his 
fictions.  '  'Tis  certain,'  he  says,  in  the  '  Memoirs  of  a  Cava- 
lier,' '  no  man  could  have  given  a  description  of  his  retreat 
from  Marston  Moor  to  Rochdale,  and  thence  over  the 
moors  to  the  North,  in  so  apt  and  proper  terms,  unless  he  had 
really  travelled  over  the  ground  he  describes,'  which,  indeed, 
is  quite  true,  but  by  no  means  proves  that  the  journey  was 
made  by  a  fugitive  from  that  particular  battle.  He  sepa- 
rates himself  more  ostentatiously  from  the  supposititious 
author  by  praising  his  admirable  manner  of  relating  the 
memoirs,  and  the  '  wonderful  variety  of  incidents  with  which 
they  are  beautified  ; '  and,  with  admirable  impudence,  assures 
us  that  they  are  written  in  so  soldierly  a  style,  that  it  '  seems 
impossible  any  but  the  very  person  who  was  present  in 
every  action  here  related  was  the  relater  of  them.'  In  the 
preface  to  '  Roxana,'  he  acts,  with  equal  spirit,  the  character 
of  an  impartial  person,  giving  us  the  evidence  on  which  he 
is  himself  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  story,  as  though  he 
would,  of  all  things,  refrain  from  pushing  us  unfairly  for  our 
belief.  The  writer,  he  says,  took  the  story  from  the  lady's 
own  mouth  :  he  was,  of  course,  obliged  to  disguise  names 
and  places  ;  but  was  himself  '  particularly  acquainted  with 
this  lady's  first  husband,  the  brewer,  and  with  his  father, 
and  also  with  his  bad  circumstances,  and  knows  that  first 


6  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

part  of  the  story.'  The  rest  we  must,  of  course,  take  upon 
the  lady's  own  evidence,  but  less  unwillingly,  as  the  first  is 
thus  corroborated.  We  cannot  venture  to  suggest  to  so 
calm  a  witness  that  he  has  invented  both  the  lady  and  the 
writer  of  her  history  ;  and,  in  short,  that  when  he  says  that 
A.  says  that  B.  says  something,  it  is,  after  all,  merely  the 
anonymous  '  he '  who  is  speaking.  In  giving  us  his  autho- 
rity for  '  Moll  Flanders,'  he  ventures  upon  the  more  refined 
art  of  throwing  a  little  discredit  upon  the  narrator's  veracity. 
She  professes  to  have  abandoned  her  evil  ways,  but,  as  he 
tells  us  with  a  kind  of  aside,  and  as  it  were  cautioning  us 
against  over-incredulity,  '  it  seems  '  (a  phrase  itself  suggest- 
ing the  impartial  looker-on)  that  in  her  old  age  '  she  was 
not  so  extraordinary  a  penitent  as  she  was  at  first  \  it  seems 
only '  (for,  after  all,  you  mustn't  make  too  much  of  my  in- 
sinuations) '  that  indeed  she  always  spoke  with  abhorrence 
of  her  former  life.'  So  we  are  left  in  a  qualified  state  of 
confidence,  as  if  we  had  been  talking  about  one  of  his 
patients  with  the  wary  director  of  a  reformatory. 

This  last  touch,  which  is  one  of  De  Foe's  favourite 
expedients,  is  most  fully  exemplified  in  the  story  of  Mrs. 
Veal.  The  author  affects  to  take  us  into  his  confidence,  to 
make  us  privy  to  the  pros  and  cons  in  regard  to  the  veracity 
of  his  own  characters,  till  we  are  quite  disarmed.  The 
sober  gentlewoman  vouches  for  Mrs.  Bargrave  ;  but  Mrs. 
Bargrave  is  by  no  means  allowed  to  have  it  all  her  own  way. 
One  of  the  ghost's  communications  related  to  the  disposal 
of  a  certain  sum  of  lo/.  a  year,  of  which  Mrs.  Bargrave, 
according  to  her  own  account,  could  have  known  nothing, 
except  by  this  supernatural  intervention.  Mrs.  Veal's 
friends,  however,  tried  to  throw  doubt  upon  the  story  of  her 
appearance,  considering  that  it  was  disreputable  for  a  decent 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  7 

woman  to  go  abroad  after  her  death.  One  of  them,  there- 
fore, declared  that  Mrs.  Bargrave  was  a  liar,  and  that  she 
had,  in  fact,  known  of  the  10/.  beforehand.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  person  who  thus  attacked  Mrs.  Bargrave  had 
himself  the  'reputation  of  a  notorious  liar.'  Mr.  Veal,  the 
ghost's  brother,  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  make  such 
gross  imputations.  He  confined  himself  to  the  more 
moderate  assertion  that  Mrs.  Bargrave  had  been  crazed  by 
a  bad  husband.  He  maintained  that  the  story  must  be  a 
mistake,  because,  just  before  her  death,  his  sister  had 
declared  that  she  had  nothing  to  dispose  of.  This  state- 
ment, however,  may  be  reconciled  with  the  ghost's  remarks 
about  the  10/.,  because  she  obviously  mentioned  such  a 
trifle  merely  by  way  of  a  token  of  the  reality  of  her  appear- 
ance. Mr.  Veal,  indeed,  makes  rather  a  better  point  by 
stating  that  a  certain  purse  of  gold  mentioned  by  the  ghost 
was  found,  not  in  the  cabinet  where  she  told  Mrs.  Bargrave 
that  she  had  placed  it,  but  in  a  comb-box.  Yet,  again,  Mr. 
Veal's  statement  is  here  rather  suspicious,  for  it  is  known 
that  Mrs.  Veal  was  very  particular  about  her  cabinet,  and 
would  not  have  let  her  gold  out  of  it.  We  are  left  in  some 
doubts  by  this  conflict  of  evidence,  although  the  obvious 
desire  of  Mr.  Veal  to  throw  discredit  on  the  story  of  his 
sister's  appearance  rather  inclines  us  to  believe  in  Mrs. 
Bargrave's  story,  who  could  have  had  no  conceivable  motive 
for  inventing  such  a  fiction.  The  argument  is  finally 
clenched  by  a  decisive  coincidence.  The  ghost  wears  a 
silk  dress.  In  the  course  of  a  long  conversation  she  inci- 
dentally mentioned  to  Mrs.  Bargrave  that  this  was  a  scoured 
silk,  newly  made  up.  When  Mrs.  Bargrave  reported  this 
remarkable  circumstance  to  a  certain  Mrs.  Wilson,  '  You 
have  certainly  seen  her,'  exclaimed  that  lady,  '  for  none  knew 


8  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

but  Mrs.  Veal  and  myself  that  the  gown  had  been  scoured.' 
To  this  crushing  piece  of  evidence  it  seems  that  neither  Mr. 
Veal  nor  the  notorious  liar  could  invent  any  sufficient 
reply. 

One  can  almost  fancy  De  Foe  chuckling  as  he  concocted 
the  refinements  of  this  most  marvellous  narrative.  The 
whole  artifice  is,  indeed,  of  a  simple  kind.  Lord  Sunderland, 
according  to  Macaulay,  once  ingeniously  defended  himself 
against  a  charge,  of  treachery,  by  asking  whether  it  was 
possible  that  any  man  should  be  so  base  as  to  do  that  which 
he  was,  in  fact,  in  the  constant  habit  of  doing.  De  Foe 
asks  us  in  substance,  Is  it  conceivable  that  any  man  should 
tell  stories  so  elaborate,  so  complex,  with  so  many  unne- 
cessary details,  with  so  many  inclinations  of  evidence  this 
way  and  that,  unless  the  stories  were  true  ?  We  instinctively 
answer,  that  it  is,  in  fact,  inconceivable  ;  and,  even  apart 
from  any  such  refinements  as  those  noticed,  the  circum- 
stantiality of  the  stories  is  quite  sufficient  to  catch  an 
unworthy  critic.  It  is,  indeed,  perfectly  easy  to  tell  a  story 
which  shall  be  mistaken  for  a  bona  fide  narrative,  if  only  we 
are  indifferent  to  such  considerations  as  making  it  interesting 
or  artistically  satisfactory. 

The  praise  which  has  been  lavished  upon  De  Foe  for 
the  verisimilitude  of  his  novels  seems  to  be  rather  extrava- 
gant. The  trick  would  be  easy  enough,  if  it  were  worth 
performing.  The  story-teller  cannot  be  cross-examined  ; 
and  if  he  is  content  to  keep  to  the  ordinary  level  of 
commonplace  facts,  there  is  not  the  least  difficulty  in 
producing  conviction.  We  recognise  the  fictitious  character 
of  an  ordinary  novel,  because  it  makes  a  certain  attempt  at 
artistic  unity,  or  because  the  facts  are  such  as  could 
obviously  not  be  known  to,  or  would  not  be  told  by,  a  real 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  9 

narrator,  or  possibly  because  they  are  inconsistent  with 
other  estabHshed  facts.  If  a  man  chooses  to  avoid  such 
obvious  confessions  of  unreahty,  he  can  easily  be  as  hfe-like 
as  De  Foe.  I  do  not  suppose  that  foreign  correspondence 
of  a  newspaper  is  often  composed  in  the  Strand  ;  but  it  is 
only  because  I  believe  that  the  honesty  of  writers  in  the 
press  is  far  too  great  to  allow  them  to  commit  a  crime  which 
must  be  speedily  detected  by  independent  evidence.  Lying 
is,  after  all,  the  easiest  of  all  things,  if  the  liar  be  not  too 
ambitious.  A  little  clever  circumstantiality  will  lull  any 
incipient  suspicion  ;  and  it  must  be  added  that  De  Foe,  in 
adopting  the  tone  of  a  bona  fide  narrator,  not  unfrequently 
overreaches  himself.  He  forgets  his  dramatic  position  in 
his  anxiety  to  be  minute.  Colonel  Jack,  at  the  end  of  a 
long  career,  tells  us  how  one  of  his  boyish  companions  stole 
certain  articles  at  a  fair,  and  gives  us  the  list,  of  which  this 
is  a  part :  '  Sthly,  a  silver  box,  with  7^.  in  small  silver  ;  6,  a 
pocket-handkerchief  ;  7,  another  ;  8,  a  jointed  baby,  and  a 
little  looking-glass.'  The  affectation  of  extreme  precision, 
especially  in  the  charming  item  '  another,'  destroys  the 
perspective  of  the  story.  We  are  listening  to  a  contem- 
porary, not  to  an  old  man  giving  us  his  fading  recollections 
of  a  disreputable  childhood. 

The  peculiar  merit,  then,  of  De  Foe  must  be  sought  in 
something  more  than  the  circumstantial  nature  of  his  lying, 
or  even  the  ingenious  artifices  by  which  he  contrives  to 
corroborate  his  own  narrative.  These,  indeed,  show  the 
pleasure  which  he  took  in  simulating  truth  ;  and  he  may 
very  probably  have  attached  undue  importance  to  this 
talent  in  the  infancy  of  novel-writing,  as  in  the  infancy  of 
painting  it  was  held  for  the  greatest  of  triumphs  when  birds 
came  and  pecked  at  the  grapes  in  a  picture.     It  is  curious, 


lo  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

indeed,  that  De  Foe  and  Richardson,  the  founders  of  our 
modern  school  of  fiction,  appear  to  have  stumbled  upon 
their  discovery  by  a  kind  of  accident.     As  De  Foe's  novels 
are  simply  history  mimis  the  facts,  so  Richardson's  are  a 
series   of  letters    minus  the    correspondents.     The   art   of 
novel-writing,  like  the  art  of  cooking  pigs  in  Lamb's  most 
philosophical  as  well  as  humorous  apologue,  first  appeared 
in  its  most   cumbrous   shape.     As  Hoti  had  to   burn  his 
cottage  for  every  dish  of  pork,  Richardson  and  De  Foe  had 
to  produce  fiction  at  the  expense  of  a  close  approach  to 
falsehood.     The  division  between  the  art  of  lying  and  the 
art  of  fiction  was  not  distinctly  visible  to  either  ;  and  both 
suffer  to  some  extent  from  the  attempt  to  produce  absolute 
illusion,  where  they   should  have  been   content  with   por- 
traiture.    And   yet  the   defect  is    balanced  by   the  vigour 
naturally  connected  with  an  unflinching  realism.     That  this 
power  rested,  in  De  Foe's  case,  upon  something  more  than 
a  bit  of  literary  trickery,  may  be  inferred  from  his  fate  in 
another    department   of    authorship.     He   twice   got   into 
trouble  for  a  device   exactly   analogous  to  that   which  he 
afterwards  practised  in  fiction.     On  both  occasions  he  was 
punished  for  assuming  a  character  for  purposes  of  mystifica- 
tion.    In  the  latest  instance,  it  is  seen,  the  pamphlet  called 
'  What   if  the    Pretender   Comes  ?  '  was   written    in    such 
obvious  irony,  that  the  mistake  of  his  intentions  must  have 
been   wilful.     The   other   and   better-known    performance, 
'  The  Shortest    Way  with  the   Dissenters,'  seems  really  to 
have  imposed  upon  some  of  his  readers.     It  is  difficult  in 
these  days  of  toleration  to  imagine  that  any  one  can  have 
taken  the  violent  suggestions  of  the  '  Shortest  Way '  as  put 
forward  seriously.     To  those  who  might  say  that  persecuting 
the  Dissenters  was  cruel,  says  De  Foe,  '  I  answer,  'tis  cruelty 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  ii 

to  kill  a  snake  or  a  toad  in  cold  blood,  but  the  poison  of 
their  nature  makes  it  a  charity  to  our  neighbours  to  destroy 
those  creatures,  not  for  any  personal  injury  received,  but 
for  prevention.  .  .  .  Serpents,  toads,  and  vipers,  &c.,  are 
noxious  to  the  body,  and  poison  the  sensitive  life  :  these 
poison  the  soul,  corrupt  our  posterity,  ensnare  our  children, 
destroy  the  vital  of  our  happiness,  our  future  felicity,  and 
contaminate  the  whole  mass.'  And  he  concludes  :  '  Alas, 
the  Church  of  England  !  What  with  Popery  on  the  one 
hand,  and  schismatics  on  the  other,  how  has  she  been 
crucified  between  two  thieves  !  Now  let  us  crucify  the 
thieves  !  Let  her  foundations  be  established  upon  the  de- 
struction of  her  enemies  :  the  doors  of  mercy  being  always 
open  to  the  returning  part  of  the  deluded  people  ;  let  the 
obstinate  be  ruled  with  a  rod  of  iron  ! '  It  gives  a  pleasant 
impression  of  the  spirit  of  the  times,  to  remember  that  this 
could  be  taken  for  a  genuine  utterance  of  orthodoxy  \  that 
De  Foe  was  imprisoned  and  pilloried,  and  had  to  write  a 
serious  protestation  that  it  was  only  a  joke,  and  that  he 
meant  to  expose  the  nonjuring  party  by  putting  their  secret 
wishes  into  plain  English.  '  'Tis  hard,'  he  says,  '  that  this 
should  not  be  perceived  by  all  the  town  ;  that  not  one  man 
can  see  it,  either  Churchman  or  Dissenter.'  It  certainly 
was  very  hard  ;  but  a  perusal  of  the  whole  pamphlet  may 
make  it  a  degree  more  intelligible.  Ironical  writing  of  this 
kind  is  in  substance  a  reductio  ad  absurdum.  It  is  a  way  of 
saying  the  logical  result  of  your  opinions  is  such  or  such  a 
monstrous  error.  So  long  as  the  appearance  of  logic  is 
preserved,  the  error  cannot  be  stated  too  strongly.  The 
attempt  to  soften  the  absurdity  so  as  to  take  in  an  antagonist 
is  injurious  artistically,  if  it  may  be  practically  useful.  An 
ironical  intention  which  is  quite  concealed  might  as  well  not 


12  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

exist.  And  thus  the  unscrupulous  use  of  the  same  weapon 
by  Swift  is  now  far  more  telling  than  De  Foe's  compara- 
tively guarded  application  of  it.  The  artifice,  however, 
is  most  skilfully  carried  out  for  the  end  which  De  Foe  had 
in  view.  The  '  Shortest  Way  '  begins  with  a  comparative 
gravity  to  throw  us  off  our  guard  ;  the  author  is  not  afraid 
of  imitating  a  little  of  the  dulness  of  his  supposed  antagonists, 
and  repeats  with  all  imaginable  seriousness  the  very  taunts 
which  a  High  Church  bigot  would  in  fact  have  used.  It 
was  not  a  sound  defence  of  persecution  to  say  that  the  Dis- 
senters had  been  cruel  when  they  had  the  upper  hand,  and 
that  penalties  imposed  upon  them  were  merely  retaliation 
for  injuries  suffered  under  Cromwell  and  from  Scottish 
Presbyterians  ;  but  it  was  one  of  those  topics  upon  which  a 
hot-headed  persecutor  would  naturally  dwell,  though  De 
Foe  gives  him  rather  more  forcible  language  than  he  would  be 
likely  to  possess.  It  is  only  towards  the  end  that  the  ironi- 
cal purpose  crops  out  in  what  we  should  have  thought  an 
unmistakable  manner.  Few  writers  would  have  preserved 
their  incognito  so  long.  The  caricature  would  have  been 
too  palpable,  and  invited  ridicule  too  ostentatiously.  An 
impatient  man  soon  frets  under  the  mask  and  betrays  his 
real  strangeness  in  the  hostile  camp. 

De  Foe  in  fact  had  a  peculiarity  at  first  sight  less 
favourable  to  success  in  fiction  than  in  controversy. 
Amongst  the  political  writers  of  that  age  he  was,  on  the 
whole,  distinguished  for  good  temper  and  an  absence  of 
violence.  Although  a  party  man,  he  was  by  no  means  a 
man  to  swallow  the  whole  party  platform.  He  walked  on 
his  own  legs,  and  was  not  afraid  to  be  called  a  deserter  by 
more  thoroughgoing  partisans.  The  principles  which  he 
most  ardently  supported  were  those  of  religious  toleration 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  13 

and  hatred  to  every  form  of  arbitrary  power.  Now,  the 
intellectual  groundwork  upon  which  such  a  character  is 
formed  has  certain  conspicuous  merits,  along  with  certain 
undeniable  weaknesses.  Amongst  the  first  may  be  reckoned 
a  strong  grasp  of  facts — which  was  developed  to  an  almost 
disproportionate  degree  in  IJe  Foe — and  a  resolution  to  see 
things  as  they  are  without  the  gloss  which  is  contracted 
from  strong  party  sentiment.  He  was  one  of  those  men 
of  vigorous  common-sense,  who  like  to  have  everything 
down  plainly  and  distinctly  in  good  unmistakable  black 
and  white,  and  indulge  a  voracious  appetite  for  facts  and 
figures.  He  was,  therefore,  able — within  the  limits  of  his 
vision — to  see  things  from  both  sides,  and  to  take  his 
adversaries'  opinions  as  calmly  as  his  own,  so  long,  at  least, 
as  they  dealt  with  the  class  of  considerations  with  which  he 
was  accustomed  to  deal  ;  for,  indeed,  there  are  certain 
regions  of  discussion  to  which  we  cannot  be  borne  on  the 
wings  of  statistics,  or  even  of  common-sense.  And  this, 
the  weak  side  of  his  intellect,  is  equally  unmistakable.  The 
matter-of-fact  man  may  be  compared  to  one  who  suffers 
from  colour-blindness.  Perhaps  he  may  have  a  power  of 
penetrating,  and  even  microscopic  vision ;  but  he  sees 
everything,  in  his  favourite  black  and  white  or  gray,  and 
loses  all  the  delights  of  gorgeous,  though  it  may  be  deceptive, 
colouring.  One  man  sees  everything  in  the  forcible  light 
and  shade  of  Rembrandt :  a  few  heroes  stand  out  conspicu- 
ously in  a  focus  of  brilliancy  from  a  background  of  im- 
perfectly defined  shadows,  clustering  round  the  centre  in 
strange  but  picturesque  confusion.  To  another,  every  figure 
is  full  of  interest,  with  singular  contrasts  and  sharply-defined 
features  ;  the  whole  effect  is  somewhat  spoilt  by  the  want 
of  perspective  and  the  perpetual  sparkle  and  glitter  ;  yet 


14  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

when  we  fix  our  attention  upon  any  special  part,  it  attracts 
us  by  its  undeniable  vivacity  and  vitality.  To  a  third, 
again,  the  individual  figures  become  dimmer,  but  he  sees  a 
slow  and  majestic  procession  of  shapes  imperceptibly  de- 
veloping into  some  harmonious  whole.  Men  profess  to 
reach  their  philosophical  conclusions  by  some  process  of 
logic ;  but  the  imagination  is  the  faculty  which  furnishes 
the  raw  material  upon  which  the  logic  is  employed,  and, 
unconsciously  to  its  owners,  determines,  for  the  most  part, 
the  shape  into  which  their  theories  will  be  moulded.  Now, 
De  Foe  was  above  the  ordinary  standard,  in  so  far  as  he  did 
not,  like  most  of  us,  see  things  merely  as  a  blurred  and  in- 
extricable chaos  ;  but  he  was  below  the  great  imaginative 
writers  in  the  comparative  coldness  and  dry  precision  of  his 
mental  vision.  To  him  the  world  was  a  vast  picture,  from 
which  all  confusion  was  banished  ;  everything  was  definite, 
clear  and  precise  as  in  a  photograph  ;  as  in  a  photograph, 
too,  everything  could  be  accurately  measured,  and  the  result 
stated  in  figures  ;  by  the  same  parallel,  there  was  a  want  of 
perspective,  for  the  most  distant  objects  were  as  precisely 
given  as  the  nearest  ;  and  yet  further,  there  was  the  same 
absence  of  the  colouring  which  is  caused  in  natural  objects 
by  light  and  heat,  and  in  mental  pictures  by  the  fire  of 
imaginative  passion.  The  result  is  a  product  which  is  to 
Fielding  or  Scott  what  a  portrait  by  a  first-rate  photographer 
is  to  one  by  Vandyke  or  Reynolds,  though,  perhaps,  the 
peculiar  qualifications  which  go  to  make  a  De  Foe  are 
almost  as  rare  as  those  which  form  the  more  elevated 
artist. 

To  illustrate  this  a  little  more  in  detail,  one  curious 
proof  of  the  want  of  the  passionate  element  in  De  Foe's 
novels  is  the  singular  calmness  with  which  he  describes  his 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  15 

villains.  He  always  looks  at  the  matter  in  a  purely  business- 
like point  of  view.  It  is  very  wrong  to  steal,  or  break  any 
of  the  commandments  :  partly  because  the  chances  are  that 
it  won't  pay,  and  partly  also  because  the  devil  will  doubt- 
less get  hold  of  you  in  time.  But  a  villain  in  De  Foe  is 
extremely  like  a  virtuous  person,  only  that,  so  to  speak,  he 
has  unluckily  backed  the  losing  side.  Thus,  for  example, 
Colonel  Jack  is  a  thief  from  his  youth  up  ;  Moll  Flanders 
is  a  thief,  and  worse  ;  Roxana  is  a  highly  immoral  lady,  and 
is  under  some  suspicion  of  a  most  detestable  murder  ;  and 
Captain  Singleton  is  a  pirate  of  the  genuine  buccaneering 
school.  Yet  we  should  really  doubt,  but  for  their  own 
confessions,  whether  they  have  villainy  enough  amongst  them 
to  furnish  an  average  pickpocket.  Roxana  occasionally 
talks  about  a  hell  within,  and  even  has  unpleasant  dreams 
concerning  '  apparitions  of  devils  and  monsters,  of  falling 
into  gulphs,  and  from  off  high  and  steep  precipices.'  She 
has,  moreover,  excellent  reasons  for  her  discomfort.  Still, 
in  spite  of  a  very  erroneous  course  of  practice,  her  moral 
tone  is  all  that  can  be  desired.  She  discourses  about  the 
importance  of  keeping  to  the  paths  of  virtue  with  the  most 
exemplary  punctuality,  though  she  does  not  find  them 
convenient  for  her  own  personal  use.  Colonel  Jack  is  a 
young  Arab  of  the  streets — as  it  is  fashionable  to  call  them 
now-a-days — sleeping  in  the  ashes  of  a  glasshouse  by  night, 
and  consorting  with  thieves  by  day.  Still,  the  exemplary 
nature  of  his  sentiments  would  go  far  to  establish  Lord 
Palmerston's  rather  heterodox  theory  of  the  innate  goodness 
of  man.  He  talks  like  a  book  from  his  earliest  infancy.  He 
once  forgets  himself  so  far  as  to  rob  a  couple  of  poor  women 
on  the  highway  instead  of  picking  rich  men's  pockets  ; 
but  his  conscience  pricks  him  so  much  that  he  cannot  rest 


1 6  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

till  he  has  restored  the  money.  Captain  Singleton  is  a  still 
more  striking  case  :  he  is  a  pirate  by  trade,  but  with  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  ordinary  British  merchant  in  his  habits 
of  thought.  He  ultimately  retires  from  a  business  in  which 
the  risks  are  too  great  for  his  taste,  marries,  and  settles  down 
quietly  on  his  savings.  There  is  a  certain  Quaker  who  joins 
his  ship,  really  as  a  volunteer,  but  under  a  show  of  com- 
pulsion, in  order  to  avoid  the  possible  inconveniences  of  a 
capture.  The  Quaker  always  advises  him  in  his  difficulties 
in  such  a  way  as  to  avoid  responsibility.  When  they  are 
in  action  with  a  Portuguese  man-of-war,  for  example,  the 
Quaker  sees  a  chance  of  boarding,  and,  coming  up  to 
Singleton,  says  very  calmly,  '  Friend,  what  dost  thou  mean  ? 
why  dost  thou  not  visit  thy  neighbour  in  the  ship,  the  door 
being  open  for  thee?'  This  ingenious  gentleman  always 
preserves  as  much  humanity  as  is  compatible  with  his 
peculiar  position,  and  even  prevents  certain  negroes  from 
being  tortured  into  confession,  on  the  unanswerable  ground 
that,  as  neither  party  understands  a  word  of  the  other's 
language,  the  confession  will  not  be  to  much  purpose.  '  It 
is  no  compliment  to  my  moderation,'  says  Singleton,  '  to 
say  I  was  convinced  by  these  reasons  ;  and  yet  we  had  all 
much  ado  to  keep  our  second  lieutenant  from  murdering 
some  of  them  to  make  them  tell.' 

Now,  this  humane  pirate  takes  up  pretty  much  the  posi- 
tion which  De  Foe's  villains  generally  occupy  in  good 
earnest.  They  do  very  objectionable  things  ;  but  they 
always  speak  like  steady  respectable  Englishmen,  with  an 
eye  to  the  main  chance.  It  is  true  that  there  is  nothing 
more  difficult  than  to  make  a  villain  tell  his  own  story 
naturally  ;  in  a  way,  that  is,  so  as  to  show  at  once  the  bad- 
ness of  the  motive  and  the  excuse  by  which  the  actor  recon- 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  17 

ciles  it  to  his  own  mind.  De  Foe  is  entirely  deficient  in 
this  capacity  of  appreciating  a  character  different  from  his 
own.  His  actors  are  merely  so  many  repetitions  of  himself 
placed  under  different  circumstances  and  committing  crimes 
in  the  way  of  business,  as  De  Foe  might  himself  have 
carried  out  a  commercial  transaction.  From  the  outside 
they  are  perfect  ;  they  are  evidently  copied  from  the  life  ; 
and  Captain  Singleton  is  himself  a  repetition  of  the  cele- 
brated Captain  Kidd,  who  indeed  is  mentioned  in  the  novel. 
But  of  the  state  of  mind  which  leads  a  man  to  be  a  pirate, 
and  of  the  effects  which  it  produces  upon  his  morals,  De  Foe 
has  either  no  notion  or  is,  at  least,  totally  incapable  of 
giving  us  a  representation.  All  which  goes  by  the  name  of 
psychological  analysis  in  modern  fiction  is  totally  alien  to 
his  art.  He  could,  as  we  have  said,  show  such  dramatic 
power  as  may  be  implied  in  transporting  himself  to  a 
different  position,  and  looking  at  matters  even  from  his 
adversary's  point  of  view  ;  but  of  the  further  power  ot 
appreciating  his  adversary's  character  he  shows  not  the 
.slightest  trace.  He  looks  at  his  actors  from  the  outside, 
and  gives  us  with  wonderful  minuteness  all  the  details  of 
their  lives  ;  but  he  never  seems  to  remember  that  within 
the  mechanism  whose  working  he  describes  there  is  a  soul 
very  different  from  that  of  Daniel  De  Foe.  Rather,  he 
seems  to  see  in  mankind  nothing  but  so  many  million 
Daniel  De  Foes  ;  they  are  in  all  sorts  of  postures,  and 
thrown  into  every  variety  of  difficulty,  but  the  stuff  of 
which  they  are  composed  is  identical  with  that  which  he 
buttons  into  his  own  coat ;  there  is  variety  of  form,  but  no 
colouring,  in  his  pictures  of  life. 

We   may   ask   again,    therefore,    what   is   the   peculiar 
source  of  De  Foe's  power  ?     He  has  little  or  no  dramatic 

VOL.   I.  C 


1 8  HOURS  IN  A    LTBRARY 

power,  in  the  higher  sense  of  the  word,  which  impHes  sym- 
pathy with  many  characters  and  varying  tones  of  mind.  If 
he  had  written  '  Henry  IV.,'  Falstaff,  and  Hotspur,  and 
Prince  Hal  would  all  have  been  as  like  each  other  as  are 
generally  the  first  and  second  murderer.  Nor  is  the  mere 
fact  that  he  tells  a  story  with  a  strange  appearance  of  vera- 
city sufficient  ;  for  a  story  may  be  truth-like  and  yet  deadly 
dull.  Indeed,  no  candid  critic  can  deny  that  this  is  the 
case  with  some  of  De  Foe's  narratives  ;  as,  for  example,  the 
latter  part  of  '  Colonel  Jack,'  where  the  details  of  manage- 
ment of  a  plantation  in  Virginia  are  sufficiently  unin- 
teresting in  spite  of  the  minute  financial  details.  One 
device,  which  he  occasionally  employs  with  great  force, 
suggests  an  occasional  source  of  interest.  It  is  generally 
reckoned  as  one  of  his  most  skilful  tricks  that  in  telling  a 
story  he  cunningly  leaves  a  few  stray  ends,  which  are  never 
taken  up.  Such  is  the  well  known  incident  of  Xury  in 
'  Robinson  Crusoe.'  This  contrivance  undoubtedly  gives 
an  appearance  of  authenticity,  by  increasing  the  resemblance 
to  real  narratives  ;  it  is  like  the  trick  of  artificially  roughen- 
ing a  stone  after  it  has  been  fixed  into  a  building,  to  give  it 
the  appearance  of  being  fresh  from  the  quarry.  De  Foe, 
however,  frequently  extracts  a  more  valuable  piece  of  service 
from  these  loose  ends.  The  situation  which  has  been  most 
praised  in  De  Foe's  novels  is  that  which  occurs  at  the  end 
of  '  Roxana.'  Roxana,  after  a  life  of  wickedness,  is  at  last 
married  to  a  substantial  merchant.  She  has  saved  from  the 
wages  of  sin  the  convenient  sum  of  2,056/.  a  year,  secured 
upon  excellent  mortgages.  Her  husband  has  17,000/.  in 
cash,  after  deducting  a  '  black  article  of  8,000  pistoles,'  due 
on  account  of  a  certain  lawsuit  in  Paris,  and  1,320/.  a  year 
in  rent.     There  is  a  satisfaction  about   these  definite  sums 


DE   FOE'S  NOVELS  19 

which    we    seldom    receive  from  the    vague    assertions    of 
modern    novehsts.     Unluckily,    a  girl    turns     up    at    this 
moment  who  shows  great  curiosity  about  Roxana's  history. 
It    soon    becomes    evident    that    she  is,  in   fact,  Roxana's 
daughter  by  a  former  and  long  since  deserted  husband  ; 
but  she  cannot  be  acknowledged  without  a  revelation  of  her 
mother's  subsequently    most  disreputable  conduct.     Now, 
Roxana  has  a  devoted  maid,  who  threatens  to  get  rid,  by 
fair  means  or  foul,  of  this  importunate  daughter.     Once  she 
fails    in  her  design,  but  confesses  to  her  mistress    that,  if 
necessary,  she  will  commit  the  murder.     Roxana  professes 
to  be  terribly  shocked,  but  yet  has  a  desire  to  be  relieved 
at    almost  any   price    from    her    tormentor.     The    maid 
thereupon  disappears  again  ;    soon  afterwards  the  daughter 
disappears  too  ;  and  Roxana  is  left  in  terrible  doubt,  tor- 
mented by  the  opposing  anxieties  that  her  maid  may  have 
murdered    her  daughter,  or  that  her    daughter    may   have 
escaped  and  revealed  the  mother's  true  character.     Here  is 
a  telling  situation  for  a  sensation  novelist ;  and  the  minute- 
ness with  which  the  story  is  worked  out,  whilst  we  are  kept 
in  suspense,  supplies  the  place  of  the  ordinary  rant ;  to  say 
nothing  of  the  increased  effect  due  to  apparent  veracity,  in 
which  certainly  few  sensation  novelists  can  even  venture  a 
distant  competition.     The  end  of  the  story  differs  still  more 
widely  from  modern  art.     Roxana  has  to  go  abroad  with 
her  husband,  still  in  a  state  of  doubt.     Her  maid  after  a 
time  joins  her,  but  gives  no  intimation  as  to  the  fate  of  the 
daughter ;  and  the  story  concludes  by  a  simple  statement 
that  Roxana  afterwards  fell  into  well  deserved  misery.     The 
mystery  is  certainly    impressive ;  and  Roxana    is    heartily 
afraid  of  the  devil  and  the  gallows,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
chance  of  losing  her  fortune.     Whether,    as    Lamb  main- 

c  2 


20  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

tained,  the  conclusion  in  which  the  mystery  is  cleared  up  is 
a  mere  forgery,  or  was  added  by  De  Foe  to  satisfy  the  ill- 
judged  curiosity  of  his  readers,  I  do  not  profess  to  decide. 
Certainly  it  rather  spoils  the  story ;  but  in  this,  as  in  some 
other  cases,  one  is  often  left  in  doubt  as  to  the  degree  in 
which  De  Foe  was  conscious  of  his  own  merits. 

Another  instance  on  a  smaller  scale  of  the  effective 
employment  of  judicious  silence,  is  an  incident  in  'Captain 
Singleton.'  The  Quaker  of  our  acquaintance  meets  with 
a  Japanese  priest  who  speaks  a  few  words  of  English,  and 
explains  that  he  has  learnt  it  from  thirteen  Englishmen,  the 
only  remnant  of  thirty-two  who  had  been  wrecked  on  the 
coast  of  Japan.  To  confirm  his  story,  he  produces  a  bit 
of  paper  on  which  is  written,  in  plain  English  words  :  'We 
came  from  Greenland  and  from  the  North  Pole.'  Here  are 
claimants  for  the  discovery  of  a  North-west  Passage,  of 
whom  we  would  gladly  hear  more.  Unluckily,  when  Cap- 
tain Singleton  comes  to  the  place  where  his  Quaker  had  met 
the  priest,  the  ship  in  which  he  was  sailing  had  departed  ; 
and  this  put  an  end  to  an  inquiry,  and  perhaps  '  may  have 
disappointed  mankind  of  one  of  the  most  noble  discoveries 
that  ever  was  made  or  will  again  be  made,  in  the  world,  for 
the  good  of  mankind  in  general ;  but  so  much  for  that.' 

In  these  two  fragments,  which  illustrate  a  very  common 
device  of  De  Foe's,  we  come  across  two  elements  of  positive 
power  over  our  imaginations.  Even  De  Foe's  imagination 
recognised  and  delighted  in  a  certain  margin  of  mystery  to 
this  harsh  world  of  facts  and  figures.  He  is  generally  too 
anxious  to  set  everything  before  us  in  broad  daylight ;  there 
is  too  little  of  the  thoughts  and  emotions  which  inhabit  the 
twilight  of  the  mind;  of  those  dim  half- seen  forms  which 
exercise  the  strongest  influence  upon  the  imagination,  and 


DE   FOE'S  NOVELS  i\ 

are  the  most  tempting  subjects  for  the  poet's  art.  De  Foe, 
in  truth,  was  Httle  enough  of  a  poet.  Sometimes  by  mere 
force  of  terse  idiomatic  language  he  rises  into  real  poetry, 
as  it  was  understood  in  the  days  when  Pope  and  Dryden 
were  our  lawgivers.  It  is  often  really  vigorous.  The  well- 
known  verses  — 

Wherever  God  erects  a  house  of  prayer, 
The  devil  always  builds  a  cliapel  there — 

which  begin  the  'True-born  Englishman,'  or  the  really  fine 
hnes  which  occur  in  the  '  Hymn  to  the  Pillory,'  that  '  hiero- 
glyphic state  machine,  contrived  to  punish  fancy  in,'  and 

ending — 

Tell  them  that  placed  him  here, 
They're  scandals  to  the  times, 
Are  at  a  loss  to  find  his  guilt. 
And  can't  coin  mil  his  crimes — 

may  stand  for  specimens  of  his  best  manner.  More  fre- 
quently he  degenerates  into  the  merest  doggerel,  e.g. — 

No  man  was  ever  yet  so  void  of  sense, 

As  to  debate  the  right  of  self-defence, 

A  principle  so  grafted  in  the  mind, 

With  nature  born,  and  does  like  nature  bind  ; 

Twisted  with  reason,  and  with  nature  too, 

As  neither  one  nor  t'other  can  undo — 

which  is  scarcely  a  happy  specimen  of  the  difficult  art  of 
reasoning  in  verse.  His  verse  is  at  best  vigorous  epigram- 
matic writing,  such  as  would  now  be  converted  into  leading 
articles,  twisted  with  more  or  less  violence  into  rhyi-ne.  And 
yet  there  is  a  poetical  side  to  his  mind,  or  at  least  a  suscep- 
tibility to  poetical  impressions  of  a  certain  order.  And  as 
a  novelist  is  on  the  border-line  between  poetry  and  prose, 
and  novels  should  be  as  it  were  prose  saturated  with  poetry, 


22  HOURS   IiY  A    LIBRARY 

we  may  expect  to  come  in  this  direction  upon  the  secret 
of  De  Foe's  power.     Although  De  Foe  for  the  most  part 
deals   with    good   tangible   subjects,  which   he   can  weigh 
and   measure   and   reduce   to   moidores   and  pistoles,  the 
mysterious    has    a    very  strong   though    peculiar  attraction 
for  him.     It  is  indeed  that  vulgar  kind  of  mystery  which 
implies  nothing  of  reverential  awe.     He   was  urged  by  a 
restless  curiosity  to  get  away  from  this  commonplace  world, 
and   reduce   the   unknown   regions   beyond   to   scale   and 
measure.     The  centre  of  Africa,  the  wilds  of  Siberia,  and 
even   more   distinctly  the  world  of  spirits,  had  wonderful 
charms   for  him.     Nothing  would  have  given  him  greater 
pleasure  than  to  determine  the  exact  number  of  the  fallen 
angels  and  the  date  of  their  calamity.     In  the  '  History  of 
the  Devil '  he  touches,  with  a  singular  kind  of  humorous 
gravity,  upon    several   of    these   questions,  and    seems   to 
apologise  for  his  limited  information.     '  Several  things,'  he 
says,  'have    been   suggested    to   set    us   a-calculating   the 
number  of  this  frightful  throng  of  devils  v/ho,  with  Satan 
the  master-devil,  was  thus  cast  out  of  heaven.'     He  declines 
the   task,  though   he   quotes   with    a   certain  pleasure  the 
result  obtained  by  a  grave  calculator,  who  found  that  in  the 
first   line  of  Satan's  army  there  were  a  thousand  times  a 
hundred  thousand  million  devils,  and  more  in  the  other  two. 
He  gives  a  kind  of  arithmetical  measure  of  the  decline  of 
the  devil's  power  by  pointing  out  that  '  he  who  was  once 
equal  to  the  angel  who  killed  eighty  thousand  men  in  one 
night,  is  not  able  now,  without  a  new  commission,  to  take 
away  the  life  of  one  Job.'     He  is  filled  with  curiosity  as 

to  the  proceedings  of  the  first  parliament  (p 1  as  he 

delicately  puts  it)  of  devils  ;  he  regrets  that  as  he  was  not 
personally  present  in  that  '  black  divan  ' — at  least,  not  that 


DE   FOE'S  NOVELS 


23 


he  can  remember,  for  who  can  account  for  his  prc-existent 
state  ?— he  cannot  say  what  happened ;  but  he  adds,  '  If  I 
had  as  much  personal  acquaintance  with  the  devil  as  would 
admit  it,  and  could  depend  upon  the  truth  of  what  answer 
he  would  give  me,  the  first  question  would  be,  w^hat  mea- 
sures they  (the  devils)  resolved  on  at  their  first  assembly  ?  ' 
and  the  second  how  they  employed  the  time  between  their 
fall  and  the  creation  of  the  man  ?  Here  we  see  the  instinct 
of  the  politician  ;  and  we  may  add  that  De  Foe  is  tho- 
roughly dissatisfied  with  Milton's  statements  upon  this 
point,  though  admiring  his  genius  ;  and  goes  so  far  as  to 
write  certain  verses  intended  as  a  correction  of,  or  interpo- 
lation into,  '  Paradise  Lost.' 

Mr.  Ruskin,  in  comparing  Milton's  Satan  with  Dante's, 
somewhere  remarks  that  the  vagueness  of  Milton,  as 
compared  with  the  accurate  measurements  given  by  Dante, 
is  so  far  a  proof  of  less  activity  of  the  imaginative  faculty. 
It  is  easier  to  leave  the  devil's  stature  uncertain  than  to  say 
that  he  was  eighteen  feet  high.  Without  disputing  the 
proposition  as  Mr.  Ruskin  puts  it,  we  fancy  that  he  would 
scarcely  take  De  Foe's  poetry  as  an  improvement  in  dignity 
upon  Milton's.  We  may,  perhaps,  guess  at  its  merits  from 
this  fragment  of  a  speech  in  prose,  addressed  to  Adam  by 
Eve  :  '  What  ails  the  sot  ? '  says  the  new  termagant.  '  What 
are  you  afraid  of?  .  .  .  Take  it,  you  fool,  and  eat.  .  .  . 
Take  it,  I  say,  or  I  will  go  and  cut  down  the  tree,  and  you 
shall  never  eat  any  of  it  at  all  ;  and  you  shall  still  be  a  fool, 
and  be  governed  by  your  wife  for  ever.'  This,  and  much 
more  gross  buffoonery  of  the  same  kind,  is  apparently 
intended  to  recommend  certain  sound  moral  aphorisms  to 
the  vulgar ;  but  the  cool  arithmetical  method  by  which  De 
Foe  investigates  the  history  of  the  devil,  his  anxiety  to  pick 


24  '  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

up  gossip  about  him,  and  the  view  which  he  takes  of  him 
as  a  very  acute  and  unscrupulous  poUtician — though  im- 
partially vindicating  him  from  some  of  Mr.  Milton's 
aspersions — is  exquisitely  characteristic. 

If  we  may  measure  the  imaginative  power  of  great  poets 
by  the  relative  merits  of  their  conceptions  of  Satan,  we 
might  find  a  humbler  gauge  for  inferior  capacities  in  the 
power  of  summoning  awe-inspiring  ghosts.  The  difficulty  of 
the  feat  is  extreme.  Your  ghost,  as  Bottom  would  have 
said,  is  a  very  fearful  wild-fowl  to  bring  upon  the  stage.  He 
must  be  handled  delicately,  or  he  is  spoilt.  Scott  has  a 
good  ghost  or  two  ;  but  Lord  Lytton,  almost  the  only 
writer  who  has  recently  dealt  with  the  supernatural,  draws 
too  freely  upon  our  belief,  and  creates  only  melodramatic 
spiritual  beings,  with  a  strong  dash  of  the  vulgarising 
element  of  modern  '  spiritualism.'  They  are  scarcely  more 
awful  beings  than  the  terrible  creations  of  the  raw-head-and- 
bloody-bones  school  of  fiction. 

Amongst  this  school  we  fear  that  De  Foe  must,  on  the 
whole,  be  reckoned.     We  have  already  made  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Veal,  who,  in  her  ghostly  condition,  talks  for  an 
hour  and  three-quarters  with  a  gossip  over  a  cup  of  tea  ; 
who,  indeed,  so  far  forgets  her  ghostly  condition  as  to  ask 
for  a  cup  of  the  said  tea,  and  only  evades  the  consequences 
of  her   blunder  by  one  of  those  rather  awkward  excuses 
which  we  all  sometimes  practise  in  society  ;  and  who,  in 
short,  is   the   least  ethereal  spirit  that  was  ever  met  with 
outside   a   table.     De    Foe's  extraordinary  love  for  super- 
natural stories  of  the  gossiping  variety  found  vent  in  '  A 
History  of  Apparitions,'  and  his  '  System  of  Magic'     The 
position  which  he  takes  up  is  a  kind  of  modified  rationalism. 
He    believes    that    there   are   genuine   apparitions  which 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  25 

personate  our  dead  friends,  and  give  us  excellent  pieces 
of  advice  on  occasion  ;  but  he  refuses  to  believe  that  the 
spirits  can  appear  themselves,  on  account  '  of  the  many 
strange  inconveniences  and  ill  consequences  which  would 
happen  if  the  souls  of  men  and  women,  unembodied  and 
departed,  were  at  liberty  to  visit  the  earth.'  De  Foe  is 
evidently  as  familiar  with  the  habits  of  spirits  generally  as  of 
the  devil.  In  that  case,  for  example,  the  feuds  of  families 
would  never  die,  for  the  injured  person  would  be  always 
coming  back  to  right  himself.  He  proceeds  upon  this 
principle  to  account  for  many  apparitions,  as,  for  example, 
one  w^hich  appeared  in  the  likeness  of  a  certain  J.  O.  of  the 
period,  and  strongly  recommended  his  wndow  to  reduce  her 
expenses.  He  won't  believe  that  the  Virgin  appeared  to  St. 
Francis,  because  all  stories  of  that  kind  are  mere  impostures 
of  the  priests  ;  but  he  thinks  it  very  likely  that  he  was  haunted 
by  the  devil,  who  may  have  sometimes  taken  the  Virgin's 
shape.  In  the  '  History  of  Witchcraft '  De  Foe  tells  us  how, 
as  he  was  once  riding  in  the  country,  he  met  a  man  on  the 
way  to  inquire  of  a  certain  wizard.  De  Foe,  according  to 
his  account,  which  may  or  may  not  be  intended  as  authentic, 
waited  the  whole  of  the  next  day  at  a  public-house  in  a 
country  town,  in  order  to  hear  the  result  of  the  inquiry  ;  and 
had  long  conversations,  reported  in  his  usual  style,  with 
infinite  '  says  he's  '  and  '  says  I's,'  in  which  he  tried  to  prove 
that  the  wizard  was  an  impostor.  This  lets  us  into  the 
secret  of  many  of  De  Foe's  apparitions.  They  are  the  ghosts 
that  frighten  villagers  as  they  cross  commons  late  at  night, 
or  that  rattle  chains  and  display  lights  in  haunted  houses. 
Sometimes  they  have  vexed  knavish  attorneys  by  discovering 
long-hidden  deeds.  Sometimes  they  have  enticed  highway- 
men into  dark  corners  of  woods,  and  there  the  wretched 


26  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

criminal  finds  in  their  bags  (for  ghosts  of  this  breed  have 
good  substantial  luggage)  nothing  but  a  halter  and  a  bit  of 
silver  (value  exactly  \z^d-)  to  pay  the  hangman.  When  he 
turns  to  the  owner,  he  has  vanished.  Occasionally,  they 
are  the  legends  told  by  some  passhig  traveller  from  distant 
lands— probably  genuine  superstitions  in  their  origin,  but 
amplified  by  tradition  into  marvellous  exactitude  of  detail, 
and  garnished  with  long  gossiping  conversations.  Such  a 
ghost,  which,  on  the  whole,  is  my  favourite,  is  the  mysterious 
Owke  Mouraski.  This  being,  whether  devil  or  good  spirit, 
no  man  knows,  accompanied  a  traveller  for  four  years 
through  the  steppes  of  Russia,  and  across  Norway,  Turkey, 
and  various  other  countries.  On  the  march  he  was  always 
seen  a  mile  to  the  left  of  the  party,  keeping  parallel  with 
them,  in  glorious  indifference  to  roads.  He  crossed  rivers 
without  bridges,  and  the  sea  without  ships.  Everywhere,  in 
the  wild  countries,  he  was  known  by  name  and  dreaded  ; 
for  if  he  entered  a  house,  some  one  would  die  there  within 
a  year.  Yet  he  was  good  to  the  traveller,  going  so  far, 
indeed,  on  one  occasion,  as  to  lend  him  a  horse,  and  fre- 
quently treating  him  to  good  advice.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  journey  Owke  Mouraski  informed  his  companion  that  he 
was  '  the  inhabitant  of  an  invisible  region,'  and  afterwards 
became  ver)'  familiar  with  him.  The  traveller,  indeed,  would 
never  believe  that  his  friend  was  a  devil,  a  scepticism  of 
which  De  Foe  doubtfully  approves.  The  story,  however, 
must  be  true,  because,  as  De  Foe  says,  he  saw  it  in  manu- 
script many  years  ago  ;  and  certainly  Owke  is  of  a  superior 
order  to  most  of  the  pot-house  ghosts. 

De  Foe,  doubtless,  had  an  insatiable  appetite  for  legends 
of  this  kind,  talked  about  them  with  infinite  zest  in  innumer- 
able gossips,  and  probably  smoked  pipes  and  consumed  ale 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  27 

in  abundance  during  the  process.  The  ghosts  are  the 
substantial  creations  of  the  popular  fancy,  which  no  longer 
nourished  itself  upon  a  genuine  faith  in  a  more  lofty  order 
of  spiritual  beings.  It  is  superstition  become  gross  and 
vulgar  before  it  disappears  for  ever.  Romance  and  poetry 
have  pretty  well  departed  from  these  ghosts,  as  from  the 
witches  of  the  period,  who  are  little  better  than  those  who 
still  linger  in  our  country  villages  and  fill  corners  of  news- 
papers, headed  '  Superstition  in  the  nineteenth  century.' 
In  his  novels  I)e  I'oe's  instinct  for  probability  generally 
enables  him  to  employ  the  marvellous  moderately,  and, 
therefore,  effectively  ;  he  is  specially  given  to  dreams  ;  they 
are  generally  verified  just  enough  to  leave  us  the  choice  of 
credulity  or  scepticism,  and  are  in  excellent  keeping  with 
the  supposed  narrator.  Roxana  tells  us  how  one  morning 
she  suddenly  sees  her  lover's  face  as  though  it  were  a  death's 
head,  and  his  clothes  covered  with  blood.  In  the  evening 
the  lover  is  murdered.  One  of  Moll  Flanders'  husbands 
hears  her  call  him  at  a  distance  of  many  miles  — a  supersti- 
tion, by  the  way,  in  which  Boswell,  if  not  Johnson,  fully 
believed.  De  Foe  shows  his  usual  skill  in  sometimes 
making  the  visions  or  omens  fail  of  a  too  close  fulfilment, 
as  in  the  excellent  dream  where  Robinson  Crusoe  hears 
Friday's  father  tell  him  of  the  sailors'  attempt  to  murder  the 
Spaniards  :  no  part  of  the  dream,  as  he  says,  is  specifically 
true,  though  it  has  a  general  truth  ;  and  hence  we  may,  at 
our  choice,  suppose  it  to  have  been  supernatural,  or  to  be 
merely  a  natural  result  of  Crusoe's  anxiety.  This  region  of 
the  marvellous,  however,  only  affects  De  Foe's  novels  in  a 
subordinate  degree.  The  Owke  Mouraski  suggests  another 
field  in  which  a  lover  of  the  mysterious  could  then  find  room 
for  his  imagination.     The  world  still  presented  a  boundless 


28  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

wilderness  of  untravelled  land.  Mapped  and  explored 
territory  was  still  a  bright  spot  surrounded  by  chaotic  dark- 
ness, instead  of  the  two  being  in  the  reverse  proportions. 
Geographers  might  fill  up  huge  tracts  by  writing  '  here  is 
much  gold,'  or  putting  '  elephants  instead  of  towns.'  De 
Foe's  gossiping  acquaintance,  when  they  were  tired  of  ghosts, 
could  tell  of  strange  adventures  in  wild  seas,  where 
merchantmen  followed  a  narrow  track,  exposed  to  the 
assaults  of  pirates  ;  or  of  long  journeys  over  endless  steppes, 
in  the  days  when  travelling  was  travelling  indeed  ;  when 
distances  were  reckoned  by  months,  and  men  might  expect 
to  meet  undiscovered  tribes  and  monsters  unimagined  by 
natural  historians.  Doubtless  he  had  listened  greedily  to 
the  stories  of  sea-faring  men  and  merchants  from  the  Gold 
Coast  or  the  East.  '  Captain  Singleton,' to  omit '  Robinson 
Crusoe  '  for  the  present,  shows  the  form  into  which  these 
stories  moulded  themselves  in  his  mind.  Singleton,  besides 
his  other  exploits,  anticipated  Livingstone  in  crossing  Africa 
from  sea  to  sea.  De  Foe's  biographers,  rather  unnecessarily, 
admire  the  marvellous  way  in  which  his  imaginary  descrip- 
tions have  been  confirmed  by  later  travellers.  And  it  is 
true  that  Singleton  found  two  great  lakes,  which  may,  if  we 
please,  be  identified  with  those  of  recent  discoverers.  His 
other  guesses  are  not  surprising.  As  a  specimen  of  the 
mode  in  which  he  filled  up  the  unknown  space  we  may 
mention  that  he  covers  the  desert  '  with  a  kind  of  thick 
moss  of  a  blackish  dead  colour,'  which  is  not  a  very 
impressive  phenomenon.  It  is  in  the  matter  of  wild  beasts, 
however,  that  he  is  strongest.  Their  camp  is  in  one  place 
surrounded  by  '  innumerable  numbers  of  devilish  creatures.' 
These  creatures  were  as  '  thick  as  a  drove  of  bullocks 
coming  to  a  fair,'  so  that  they  could  not  fire  without  hitting 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  29 

some  ;  in  fact,  a  volley  brought  down  three  tigers  and  two 
wolves,  besides  one  creature  *  of  an  ill-gendered  kind, 
between  a  tiger  and  a  leopard.'  Before  long  they  met  an 
'  ugly,  venomous,  deformed  kind  of  a  snake  or  serpent,' 
which  had  'a  hellish,  ugly,  deformed  look  and  voice;' 
indeed,  they  would  have  recognised  in  it  the  being  who 
most  haunted  I)e  Foe's  imaginary  world — the  devil — except 
that  they  could  not  think  what  business  the  devil  could  have 
where  there  were  no  people.  The  fauna  of  this  country, 
besides  innumerable  lions,  tigers,  leopards,  and  elephants, 
comprised  '  living  creatures  as  big  as  calves,  but  not  of  that 
kind,'  and  creatures  between  a  buffalo  and  a  deer,  which 
resembled  neither  ;  they  had  no  horns,  but  legs  like  a  cow, 
with  a  fine  head  and  neck,  like  a  deer.  The  'ill-gendered' 
beast  is  an  admirable  specimen  of  De  Foe's  workmanship. 
It  shows  his  moderation  under  most  tempting  circumstances. 
No  dog-headed  men,  no  men  with  eyes  in  their  breasts,  or 
feet  that  serve  as  umbrellas,  will  suit  him.  He  must  have 
something  new,  and  yet  probable  ;  and  he  hits  upon  a  very 
serviceable  animal  in  this  mixture  between  a  tiger  and  a 
leopard.  Surely  no  one  could  refuse  to  honour  such  a 
moderate  draft  upon  his  imagination.  In  short,  De  Foe, 
even  in  the  wildest  of  regions,  where  his  pencil  might  have 
full  play,  sticks  closely  to  the  commonplace,  and  will  not 
venture  beyond  the  regions  of  the  easily  conceivable. 

The  final  element  in  which  De  Foe's  curiosity  might 
find  a  congenial  food  consisted  of  the  stories  floating  about 
contemporary  affairs.  He  had  talked  with  men  who  had 
fought  in  the  Great  Rebellion,  or  even  in  the  old  German 
wars.  He  had  himself  been  out  with  Monmouth,  and  taken 
part  in  the  fight  at  Sedgemoor.  Doubtless  that  small  ex- 
perience of  actual  warfare  gave  additional  vivacity  to  his 


30  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

descriptions  of  battles,  and  was  useful  to  him,  as  Gibbon 
declares  that  his  service  with  the  militia  was  of  some  assist- 
ance in  describing  armies  of  a  very  different  kind.  There 
is  a  period  in  history  which  has  a  peculiar  interest  for  all  of 
us.  It  is  that  which  lies  upon  the  border-land  between  the 
past  and  present  ;  which  has  gathered  some  romance  from 
the  lapse  of  time,  and  yet  is  not  so  far  off  but  that  we  have 
seen  some  of  the  actors,  and  can  distinctly  realise  the  scenes 
in  which  they  took  part.  Such  to  the  present  generation  is 
the  era  of  the  Revolutionary  wars.  '  Old  men  still  creep 
among  us '  who  lived  through  that  period  of  peril  and 
excitement,  and  yet  we  are  far  enough  removed  from  them 
to  fancy  that  there  were  giants  in  those  days.  When  De  Foe 
wrote  his  novels  the  battles  of  the  great  Civil  AVar  and  the 
calamities  of  the  Plague  were  passing  through  this  phase  ; 
and  to  them  we  owe  two  of  his  most  interesting  books,  the 
'  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier  '  and  the  '  History  of  the  Plague.' 

When  such  a  man  spins  us  a  yarn  the  conditions  of  its 
being  interesting  are  tolerably  simple.  The  first  condition 
obviously  is,  that  the  plot  must  be  a  good  one,  and  good  in 
the  sense  that  a  representation  in  dumb-show  must  be 
sufficiently  exciting,  without  the  necessity  of  any  explana- 
tion of  motives.  The  novel  of  sentiment  or  passion  or 
character  would  be  altogether  beyond  his  scope.  He  will 
accumulate  any  number  of  facts  and  details  ;  but  they  must 
be  such  as  will  speak  for  themselves  without  the  need  of 
an  interpreter.  For  this  reason  we  do  not  imagine  that 
'  Roxana,'  '  Moll  Flanders,'  '  Colonel  Jack,'  or  '  Captain 
Singleton '  can  fairly  claim  any  higher  interest  than  that 
which  belongs  to  the  ordinary  police  report,  given  with  in- 
finite fulness  and  vivacity  of  detail.  In  each  of  them  there 
are  one  or  two  forcible  situations.     Roxana  pursued  by  her 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  3 1 

daughter,  Moll  I'landers  in  prison,  and  Colonel  Jack  as  a 
young  boy  of  the  streets,  are  powerful  fragments,  and  well 
adapted  for  his  peculiar  method.  He  goes  on  heaping  up 
little  significant  facts,  till  we  are  able  to  realise  the  situation 
powerfully,  and  we  may  then  supply  the  sentiment  for  our- 
selves. But  he  never  seems  to  know  his  own  strength.  He 
gives  us  at  equal  length,  and  with  the  utmost  plain-speaking, 
the  details  of  a  number  of  other  positions,  which  are  neither 
interesting  nor  edifying.  He  is  decent  or  coarse,  just  as  he 
is  dull  or  amusing,  without  knowing  the  difference.  The 
details  about  the  different  connections  formed  by  Roxana 
and  Moll  Planders  have  no  atom  of  sentiment,  and  are 
about  as  wearisome  as  the  journal  of  a  specially  heartless 
lady  of  the  same  character  would  be  at  the  present  day. 
He  has  been  praised  for  never  gilding  objectionable  objects, 
or  making  vice  attractive.  To  all  appearance,  he  would 
have  been  totally  unable  to  set  about  it.  He  has  only  one 
mode  of  telling  a  story,  and  he  follows  the  thread  of  his 
narrative  into  the  back-slums  of  London,  or  lodging-houses 
of  doubtful  character,  or  respectable  places  of  trade,  with 
the  same  equanimity,  at  a  good  steady  jog-trot  of  narrative. 
The  absence  of  any  passion  or  sentiment  deprives  such  places 
of  the  one  possible  source  of  interest ;  and  we  must  confess 
that  two-thirds  of  each  of  these  novels  are  deadly  dull  ;  the 
remainder,  though  exhibiting  specimens  of  his  genuine  power, 
is  not  far  enough  from  the  commonplace  to  be  specially 
attractive.  In  short,  the  merit  of  De  Foe's  narrative  bears 
a  direct  proportion  to  the  intrinsic  merit  of  a  plain  statement 
of  the  facts  ;  and,  in  the  novels  already  mentioned,  as  there 
is  nothing  very  surprising,  certainly  nothing  unique,  about 
the  story,  his  treatment  cannot  raise  it  above  a  very  moderate 
level. 


32  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

Above  these  stories  comes  De  Foe's  best  fragment  of 
fictitious  history.'     The  'Memoirs  of  a  Cavaher '  is  a  very 
amusing  book,  though  it  is  less  fiction  than  history,  inter- 
spersed with  a    few   personal   anecdotes.     In   it  there  are 
some  exquisite  little  bits  of  genuine  De  Foe.     The  Cavalier 
tells  us,  with  such  admirable  frankness,  that  he  once  left  the 
army  a  day  or  two  before  a  battle,  in  order  to  visit  some 
relatives  at  Bath,  and  excuses  himself  so  modestly  for  his 
apparent  neglect  of  military  duty,  that  we  cannot  refuse  to 
believe  in   him.     A  novelist,  we  say,  would  have  certainly 
taken  us  to  the  battle,  or  would,  at  least,  have  given  his 
hero  a  more  heroic  excuse.     The  character,  too,  of  the  old 
soldier,  who  has  served  under  Gustavus  Adolphus,  who  is 
disgusted  with  the  raw  English  levies,  still  more  disgusted 
with  the  interference  of  parsons,  and  who  has  a  respect  for 
his   opponents — especially   Sir   Thomas    Fairfax — which  is 
compounded  partly  of  English  love  of  fair  play,  and  partly 
of   the  indifference  of  a  professional  officer — is  better  sup- 
ported than  most  of   De   Foe's  personages.      An  excellent 
Dugald   Dalgetty  touch  is  his  constant  anxiety  to  impress 
upon  the  Royalist  commanders  the  importance  of  a  parti- 
cular   trick   which  he  has  learned  abroad  of  mixing  foot 
soldiers  with  the  cavalry.     We  must  leave  him,  however,  to 
say  a  few  words  upon  the  '  History  of  the  Plague,'  which 
seems  to  come  next  in  merit  to   '  Robinson  Crusoe.'     Here 
De  Foe  has  to  deal  with  a  story  of  such  intrinsically  tragic 
interest  that  all  his  details  become  affecting.     It  needs  no 
commentary    to   interpret   the    meaning    of    the    terrible 
anecdotes,   many  of   which  are  doubtless  founded  on  fact. 
There  is  the  strange  superstitious  element  brought  out  by  the 

'   De  Foe  may  have  had  some  materials  for  this  story  ;  but  there 
seems  to  be  little  doubt  that  it  is  substantially  his  own. 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  33 

horror  of  the  sudden  visitation.  The  supposed  writer 
hesitates  as  to  leaving  the  doomed  city.  He  is  decided  to 
stay  at  last  by  opening  the  Bible  at  random  and  coming 
upon  the  text,  '  He  shall  deliver  thee  from  the  snare  of  the 
fowler,  and  from  the  noisome  pestilence.'  He  watches  the 
comets  :  the  one  which  appeared  before  the  Plague  was  '  of 
a  dull,  languid  colour,  and  its  motion  heavy,  solemn,  and 
slow  ; '  the  other,  which  preceded  the  Great  Fire,  was 
'bright  and  sparkling,  and  its  motion  swift  and  furious.' 
Old  women,  he  says,  believed  in  them,  especially  '  the 
hypochondriac  part  of  the  other  sex,'  who  might,  he  thinks, 
be  called  old  women  too.  Still  he  half-believes  himself, 
especially  when  the  second  appears.  He  does  not  believe 
that  the  breath  of  the  plague-stricken  upon  a  glass  would 
leave  shapes  of  '  dragons,  snakes,  and  devils,  horrible  to 
behold  : '  but  he  does  believe  that  if  they  breathed  on  a 
bird  they  would  kill  it,  or  'at  least  make  its  eggs  rotten.' 
However,  he  admits  that  no  experiments  were  tried.  Then 
we  have  the  hideous,  and  sometimes  horribly  grotesque, 
incidents.  There  is  the  poor  naked  creature,  who  runs  up 
and  down,  exclaiming  continually,  '  Oh,  the  great  and  the 
dreadful  God  1  ■  but  would  say  nothing  else,  and  speak  to 
no  one.  There  is  the  woman  who  suddenly  opens  a  window 
and  '  calls  out,  "  Death,  death,  death :  "  in  a  most  inimitable 
tone,  which  struck  me  with  horror  and  chillness  in  the  very 
blood.'  There  is  the  man  who,  with  death  in  his  face, 
opens  the  door  to  a  young  apprentice  sent  to  ask  him  for 
money  :  '  Very  well,  child,'  says  the  Uving  ghost  ;  '  go  to 
Cripplegate  Church,  and  bid  them  ring  the  bell  for  me  ; ' 
and  with  those  words  shuts  the  door,  goes  upstairs,  and  dies. 
Then  we  have  the  horrors  of  the  dead-cart,  and  the  unlucky 
piper  who  was  carried  off  by  mistake.  De  Foe.  with  his 
VOL.    I.  i> 


34  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

usual  ingenuity,  corrects  the  inaccurate  versions  of  the 
story,  and  says  that  the  piper  was  not  blind,  but  only  old 
and  silly  ;  and  that  he  does  not  believe  that,  as  '  the  story 
goes,'  he  set  up  his  pipes  while  in  the  cart.  After  this  we 
cannot  refuse  to  admit  that  he  was  really  carried  off  and  all 
but  buried.  Another  device  for  cheating  us  into  accejDtance 
of  his  story  is  the  ingenious  way  in  which  he  imitates  the 
occasional  lapses  of  memory  of  a  genuine  narrator,  and 
admits  that  he  does  not  precisely  recollect  certain  details ; 
and  still  better  is  the  conscientious  eagerness  with  which 
he  distinguishes  between  the  occurrences  of  which  he  was 
an  eye-witness  and  those  which  he  only  knew  by  hearsay. 

This  book,  more  than  any  of  the  others,  shows  a  skill 
in  selecting  telling  incidents.  We  are  sometimes  in  doubt 
whether  the  particular  details  which  occur  in  other  stories 
are  not  put  in  rather  by  good  luck  than  from  a  due  percep- 
tion of  their  value.  He  thus  resembles  a  savage,  who  is  as 
much  pleased  with  a  glass  bead  as  with  a  piece  of  gold;  but 
in  the  '  History  of  the  Plague  '  every  detail  goes  straight  to 
the  mark.  At  one  point  he  cannot  help  diverging  into  the 
ston,-  of  three  poor  men  who  escape  into  the  fields,  and 
giving  us,  with  his  usual  relish,  all  their  rambling  conversa- 
tions by  the  way.  For  the  most  part,  however,  he  is  less 
diffusive  and  more  pointed  than  usual  \  the  greatness  of  the 
calamity  seems  to  have  given  more  intensity  to  his  style  ; 
and  it  leaves  all  the  impression  of  a  genuine  narrative,  told 
by  one  who  has,  as  it  were,  just  escaped  from  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death,  with  the  awe  still  upon  him^  and  every 
terrible  sight  and  sound  fresh  in  his  memory.  The  amazing 
truthfulness  of  the  style  is  here  in  its  proper  place  ;  we 
wish  to  be  brought  as  near  as  may  be  to  the  facts  ;  we  want 
good  realistic  painting  more  than  fine  sentiment.    The  story 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  35 

reminds  us  uf  certain  ghastly  photographs  published  during 
the  American  War,  which  had  been  taken  on  the  field  of 
battle.  They  gave  a  more  forcible  impression  of  the  horrors 
of  war  than  the  most  thrilling  pictures  drawn  from  the  fancy. 
In  such  cases  we  only  wish  the  narrator  to  stand  as  much 
as  possible  on  one  side,  and  just  draw  up  a  bit  of  the 
curtain  which  conceals  his  gallery  of  horrors. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  say  enough  of '  Robinson  Crusoe ' 
to  justify  its  traditional  superiority  to  De  Foe's  other 
writings.  The  charm,  as  some  critics  say,  is  difficult  to 
analyse  ;  and  I  do  not  profess  to  demonstrate  mathemati- 
cally that  it  must  necessarily  be,  what  it  is,  the  most  fasci- 
nating boy's  book  ever  written,  and  one  which  older  critics 
may  study  with  delight.  The  most  obvious  advantage  over 
the  secondary  novels  hes  in  the  unique  situation.  Lamb, 
in  the  passage  from  which  I  have  quoted,  gracefully  evades 
this  point.  '  Are  there  no  solitudes,'  he  says,  '  out  of  the 
cave  and  the  desert  ?  or  cannot  the  heart,  in  the  midst  of 
crowds,  feel  frightfully  alone  ? '  Singleton,  he  suggests,  is 
alone  with  pirates  less  merciful  than  the  howling  monsters, 
the  devilish  serpents,  and  ill-gendered  creatures  of  De  Foe's 
deserts.  Colonel  Jack  is  alone  amidst  the  London  thieves 
when  he  goes  to  bury  his  treasures  in  the  hollow  tree.  This 
is  prettily  said  ;  but  it  suggests  rather  what  another  writer 
might  have  made  of  De  Foe's  heroes,  than  what  De  Foe 
made  of  them  himself.  Singleton,  it  is  true,  is  alone  amongst 
the  pirates,  but  he  takes  to  them  as  naturally  as  a  fish  takes 
to  the  water,  and,  indeed,  finds  them  a  good,  honest, 
respectable,  stupid  sort  of  people.  They  stick  by  him  and 
he  by  them,  and  we  are  never  made  to  feel  the  real  horrors 
of  his  position.  Colonel  Jack  might,  in  other  hands,  have 
become  an  Oliver  Twist,  less  real  perhaps  than  De  Foe  has 

D  2 


36  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

made  him,  but  infinitely  more  pathetic.  De  Foe  tells  us 
of  his  unpleasant  sleeping-places,  and  his  occasional  fears 
of  the  gallows  ;  but  of  the  supposed  mental  struggles,  of 
the  awful  solitude  of  soul,  we  hear  nothing.  How  can  we 
sympathise  very  deeply  with  a  young  gentleman  whose 
recollections  run  chiefly  upon  the  exact  numbers  of  shillings 
and  pence  captured  by  himself  and  his  pocket-picking 'pals'? 
Similarly  Robinson  Crusoe  dwells  but  little  upon  the  horrors 
of  his  position,  and  when  he  does  is  apt  to  get  extremely 
prosy.  We  fancy  that  he  could  never  have  been  in  want  of 
a  solid  sermon  on  Sunday,  however  much  he  may  have 
missed  the  church-going  bell.  But  in  '  Robinson  Crusoe,' 
as  in  the  '  History  of  the  Plague,'  the  story  speaks  for  itself. 
To  explain  the  horrors  of  living  among  thieves,  we  must 
have  some  picture  of  internal  struggles,  of  a  sense  of  honour 
opposed  to  temptation,  and  a  pure  mind  in  danger  of  con- 
tamination. De  Foe's  extremely  straightforward  and  prosaic 
view  of  life  prevents  him  from  setting  any  such  sentimental 
trials  before  us  ;  the  lad  avoids  the  gallows,  and  in  time 
becomes  the  honest  master  ofa  good  plantation  ;  and  there's 
enough.  But  the  horrors  of  abandonment  on  a  desert 
island  can  be  appreciated  by  the  simplest  sailor  or  school- 
boy. The  main  thing  is  to  bring  out  the  situation  plainly 
and  forcibly,  to  tell  us  of  the  difficulties  of  making  pots  and 
pans,  of  catching  goats  and  sowing  corn,  and  of  avoiding 
audacious  cannibals.  This  task  De  Foe  performs  with 
unequalled  spirit  and  vivacity.  In  his  first  discovery  ofa  new 
art  he  shows  the  freshness  so  often  conspicuous  in  first  novels. 
The  scenery  was  just  that  which  had  peculiar  charms  for  his 
fancy;  it  was  one  of  those  half-true  legends  of  which  he 
had  heard  strange  stories  from  seafaring  men,  and  possibly 
from  the  atjuaintances  of  his  hero  himself.     He  brings  out 


I)R   FOE'S  NOVELS  37 

the  shrewd  vigorous  character  of  the  Enghshman  thrown 
upon  his  own  resources  with  evident  enjoyment  of  his  task. 
Indeed,  De  Foe  tells  us  very  emphatically  that  in  Robinson 
Crusoe  he  saw  a  kind  of  allegory  of  his  own  fate.  He  had 
suffered  from  solitude  of  soul.  Confinement  in  his  prison 
is  represented  in  the  book  by  confinement  in  an  island  ; 
and  even  a  particular  incident,  here  and  there,  such  as  the 
fright  he  receives  one  night  from  something  in  his  bed,  '  was 
word  for  word  a  history  of  what  happened.'  In  other  words, 
this  novel  too,  like  many  of  the  best  ever  written,  has  in  it 
the  autobiographical  element  which  makes  a  man  speak 
from  greater  depths  of  feeling  than  in  a  purely  imaginary 
story. 

It  would  indeed  be  easy  to  show  that  the  story,  though 
in  one  sense  marvellously  like  truth,  is  singularly  wanting  as 
a  pyschological  study.  Friday  is  no  real  savage,  but  a  good 
English  servant  without  plush.  He  says  '  muchee '  and 
'speakee,'  but  he  becomes  at  once  a  civilised  being,  and  in 
his  first  conversation  puzzles  Crusoe  terribly  by  that  awk- 
ward theological  question,  why  Cod  did  not  kill  the  devil — 
for  characteristically  enough  Crusoe's  first  lesson  includes  a 
little  instruction  upon  the  enemy  of  mankind.  He  found, 
however,  that  it  was  'not  so  easy  to  imprint  right  notions  in 
Friday's  mind  about  the  devil,  as  it  was  about  the  being  of 
a  God.'  This  is  comparatively  a  trilie  ;  but  Crusoe  himself 
is  all  but  impossible.  Steele,  indeed,  gives  an  account  of 
Selkirk,  from  which  he  infers  that  '  this  plain  man's  story  is 
a  memorable  example  that  he  is  happiest  who  confines  his 
wants  to  natural  necessities  ; '  but  the  facts  do  not  warrant 
this  pet  doctrine  of  an  old-fashioned  school.  Selkirk's  state 
of  mind  may  be  inferred  from  two  or  three  facts.  He  had 
almost  forgotten  to  talk  ;  he  had  learnt  to  catch  goats  by 


38  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

hunting  them  on  foot  ;  and  he  had  acquired  the  exceedingly 
difficult  art  of  making  fire  by  rubbing  two  sticks.  In  other 
words,  his  whole  mind  was  absorbed  in  providing  a  few 
physical  necessities,  and  he  was  rapidly  becoming  a  savage 
—for  a  man  who  can't  speak  and  can  make  fire  is  very  near 
the  Australian.  We  may  infer,  what  is  probable  from  other 
cases,  that  a  man  living  fifteen  years  by  himself,  like  Crusoe, 
would  either  go  mad  or  sink  into  the  semi-savage  state. 
D.e  Foe  really  describes  a  man  in  prison,  not  in  solitary 
confinement.  We  should  not  be  so  pedantic  as  to  call  for 
accuracy  in  such  matters  ;  but  the  difference  between  the 
fiction  and  what  we  believe  would  have  been  the  reality  is 
significant.  De  Foe,  even  in  '  Robinson  Crusoe,'  gives  a 
very  inadequate  picture  of  the  mental  torments  to  which 
his  hero  is  exposed.  He  is  frightened  by  a  parrot  calling 
him  by  name,  and  by  the  strangely  picturesque  incident  of 
the  footmark  on  the  sand  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  he  takes  his 
imprisonment  with  preternatural  stolidity.  His  stay  on  the 
island  produces  the  same  state  of  mind  as  might  be  due  to 
a  dull  Sunday  in  Scotland.  For  this  reason,  the  want  of 
power  in  describing  emotion  as  compared  with  the  amazing 
power  of  describing  facts,  '  Robinson  Crusoe '  is  a  book  for 
boys  rather  than  men,  and,  as  Lamb  says,  for  the  kitchen 
rather  than  for  higher  circles.  It  falls  short  of  any  high 
intellectual  interest.  When  we  leave  the  striking  situation 
and  get  to  the  second  part,  with  the  Spaniards  and  \Y\\\ 
Atkins  talking  natural  theology  to  his  wife,  it  sinks  to  the 
level  of  the  secondary  stories.  But  for  people  who  are  not 
too  proud  to  take  a  rather  low  order  of  amusement  '  Robin- 
son Crusoe  '  will  always  be  one  of  the  most  charming  of 
books.  We  have  the  romantic  and  adventurous  incidents 
upon  which  the  most  unflinching  realism  can  be  set  to  work 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  39 

without  danger  of  vulgarity.  Here  is  precisely  the  story 
suited  to  De  Foe's  strength  and  weakness.  He  is  forced  to 
be  artistic  in  spite  of  himself  He  cannot  lose  the  thread  of 
the  narrative  and  break  it  into  disjointed  fragments,  for  the 
limits  of  the  island  confine  him  as  well  as  his  hero.  He 
cannot  tire  us  with  details,  for  all  the  details  of  such  a  story 
are  interesting ;  it  is  made  up  of  petty  incidents,  as  much 
as  the  life  of  a  prisoner  reduced  to  taming  flies,  or  making 
saws  out  of  penknives.  The  island  does  as  well  as  the 
Bastille  for  making  trifles  valuable  to  the  sufferer  and  to  us. 
The  facts  tell  the  story  of  themselves,  without  any  demand 
for  romantic  power  to  press  them  home  to  us  ;  and  the 
eff"orts  to  give  an  air  of  authenticity  to  the  story,  which 
sometimes  make  us  smile,  and  sometimes  rather  bore  us,  in 
other  novels  are  all  to  the  purpose  ;  for  there  is  a  real  point 
in  putting  such  a  story  in  the  mouth  of  the  sufferer,  and  in 
giving  us  for  the  time  an  illusory  belief  in  his  reality.  It  is 
one  of  the  exceptional  cases  in  which  the  poetical  aspect 
of  a  position  is  brought  out  best  by  the  most  prosaic  accuracy 
of  detail;  and  we  imagine  that  Robinson  Crusoe's  island, 
with  all  his  small  household  torments,  will  always  be  more 
impressive  than  the  more  gorgeously  coloured  island  of 
Enoch  Arden.  When  we  add  that  the  whole  book  shows 
the  freshness  of  a  writer  employed  on  his  first  novel — though 
at  the  mature  age  of  fifty-eight ;  seeing  in  it  an  allegory  of 
his  own  experience  embodied  in  the  scenes  which  most 
interested  his  imagination,  we  see  some  reasons  why 
'Robinson  Crusoe'  should  hold  a  distinct  rank  by  itself 
amongst  his  works.  As  De  Foe  was  a  man  of  very  powerful 
but  very  limited  imagination — able  to  see  certain  aspects  of 
things  with  extraordinary  distinctness,  but  little  able  to  rise 
above  them — even  his  greatest  book  shows  his  weakness, 


40  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

and  scarcely  satisfies  a  grown-up  man  with  a  taste  for  high 
art.  In  revenge,  it  ought,  according  to  Rousseau,  to  be  for 
a  time  the  whole  library  of  a  boy,  chiefly,  it  seems,  to  teach 
him  that  the  stock  of  an  ironmonger  is  better  than  that  of  a 
jeweller.  We  may  agree  in  the  conclusion  without  caring 
about  the  reason  ;  and  to  have  pleased  all  the  boys  in 
Europe  for  near  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  is,  after  all,  a 
remarkable  feat. 

One  remark  must  be  added,  which  scarcely  seems  to 
have  been  sufficiently  noticed  by  De  Foe's  critics.  He  cannot 
be  understood  unless  we  remember  that  he  was  primarily 
and  essentially  a  journalist,  and  that  even  his  novels  are 
part  of  his  journalism.  He  was  a  pioneer  in  the  art  of 
newspaper  writing,  and  anticipated  with  singular  acuteness 
many  later  developments  of  his  occupation.  The  nearest 
parallel  to  him  is  Cobbett,  who  wrote  still  better  English, 
though  he  could  hardly  have  written  a  '  Robinson  Crusoe.' 
De  Foe,  like  Cobbett,  was  a  sturdy  middle-class  Englishman, 
and  each  was  in  his  time  the  most  eifective  advocate  of  the 
political  views  of  his  class.  De  Foe  represented  the  Whiggism, 
not  of  the  great  'junto'  or  aristocratic  ring,  but  of  the  dis- 
senters and  tradesmen  whose  prejudices  the  junto  had  to 
turn  to  account.  He  would  have  stood  by  Chatham  in  the 
time  of  Wilkes  and  of  the  American  War  ;  he  would  have 
demanded  parliamentary  reform  in  the  time  of  Brougham 
and  Bentham,  and  he  would  have  been  a  follower  of  the 
Manchester  school  in  the  time  of  Bright  and  Cobden.  We 
all  know  the  type,  and  have  made  up  our  minds  as  to  its 
merits.  \Mien  De  Foe  came  to  be  a  subject  of  biography 
in  this  century,  he  was  of  course  praised  for  his  enlighten- 
ment by  men  of  congenial  opinions.  He  was  held  up  as  a 
model  politician,  not  only  for  his  creed  but  for  his  indepen- 


DE   FOE'S  NOVELS  41 

dence.  The  revelations  of  his  last  biographer,  Mr.  Lee, 
showed  unfortunately  that  considerable  deductions  must  be 
made  from  the  independence.  He  was,  as  we  now  know,  in 
the  pay  of  Government  for  many  years,  while  boasting  of  his 
perfect  purity  ;  he  was  transferred,  like  a  mere  dependent, 
from  the  Whigs  to  the  Tories  and  back  again.  In  the  reign  of 
George  I.  he  consented  to  abandon  his  character  in  order  to 
act  as  a  spy  upon  unlucky  Jacobite  colleagues.  It  is  to  the 
credit  of  Harley's  acuteness  that  he  was  the  first  English 
minister  to  make  a  systematic  use  of  the  press  and  was  the 
patron  both  of  Swift  and  De  Foe.  But  to  use  the  press  was 
then  to  make  a  mere  tool  of  the  author.  De  Foe  was  a  jour- 
nalist, living,  and  supporting  a  family,  by  his  pen,  in  the  days 
when  a  journalist  had  to  choose  between  the  pillory  and  de- 
pendence. He  soon  had  enough  of  the  pillory  and  preferred 
to  do  very  dirty  services  for  his  employer.  Other  journalists, 
I  fear,  since  his  day  have  consented  to  serve  masters  whom 
in  their  hearts  they  disapproved.  It  may,  I  think,  be  fairly 
said  on  behalf  of  De  Foe  that  in  the  main  he  worked  for 
causes  of  which  he  really  approved  ;  that  he  never  sacrificed 
the  opinions  to  which  he  was  most  deeply  attached  ;  that  his 
morality  was,  at  worst,  above  that  of  many  contemporary 
politicians  ;  and  that,  in  short,  he  had  a  conscience,  though 
he  could  not  afford  to  obey  it  implicitly.  He  says  himself, 
and  I  think  the  statement  has  its  pathetic  side,  that  he  made 
a  kind  of  compromise  with  that  awkward  instinct.  He 
praised  those  acts  only  of  the  Government  which  he  really 
approved,  though  he  could  not  afford  to  denounce  those 
from  which  he  diftered.  Undoubtedly,  as  many  respectable 
moralists  have  told  us,  the  man  who  endeavours  to  draw 
such  hues  will  get  into  difficulties  and  probably  emerge  with 
a  character  not  a  little  soiled  in  the  process.     But  after  all 


42  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

as  things  go,  it  is  something  to  find  that  a  journalist  has 
really  a  conscience,  even  though  his  conscience  be  a  little 
too   open    to   solid   arguments.     He   was    still  capable  of 
blushing.     Let   us   be   thankful    that   in    these    days    our 
journalists   are   too   high-minded  to   be   ever   required  to 
blush.     Here,  however,  I  have  only  to  speak  of  the  effect 
of  De    Foe's    position    upon    his    fictions.     He  had  early 
begun  to  try  other  than  political  modes  of  journalism.     His 
account  of  the  great  storm  of  1703   was  one  of  his  first 
attempts  as  a  reporter  ;  and  it  is  characteristic  that,  as  he  was 
in  prison  at  the  time,  he  had  already  to  report  things  seen 
only  by  the  eye  of  faith.     He  tried  at  an  early  period  to 
give  variety  to  his  '  Review  '  by  some  of  the  '  social '  articles 
which  afterwards   became  the  staple  of  the   '  Tatler '  and 
'  Spectator.'     When,  after  the  death  of  Queen  Anne,  there 
was  a  political  lull  he  struck  out  new  paths.     It  was  then 
that  he  wrote  lives  of  highwaymen  and  dissenting  divines, 
and  that  he  patched  up  any  narratives  which  he  could  get 
hold  of,  and  gave  them  the  shape  of  authentic  historical 
documents.     He  discovered  the  great  art  of  interviewing, 
and  one  of  his  performances  might  still  pass  for  a  master- 
piece.    Jack  Sheppard,  when  already  in  the  cart  beneath 
the  gallows,  gave  a  paper  to  a  bystander,  of  which  the  life 
published  by  De  Foe  on  the  following  day  professed  to  be 
a  reproduction.     Nothing  that  could  be  turned  into  copy 
for  the  newspaper  or  the  sixpenny  pamphlet  of  the  day 
came   amiss    to   this  forerunner  of  journalistic  enterprise. 
This  is  the  true  explanation  of  '  Robinson  Crusoe '  and  its 
successors.     '  Robinson  Crusoe,'  in  fact,  is  simply  an  appli- 
cation on  a  larger  scale  of  the  device  which  he  was  prac- 
tising every  day.     It  is  purely  and  simply  a  masterly  bit  of 
journalism.     It  affects  to  be  a  true  story,  as,  of  course,  every 


DE  FOES  NOVELS  43 

Story  in  a  newspaper  affects  to  be  true  ;  though  De  Foe  had 
made  the  not  very  remote  discovery  that  it  is  often  easier  to 
invent  the  facts  than  to  investigate  them.  He  is  simply  a 
reporter  mi/iiis  the  veracity.  Like  any  other  reporter,  he 
assumes  that  the  interest  of  his  story  depends  obviously  and 
entirely  upon  its  verisimilitude.  He  relates  the  adventures 
of  the  genuine  Alexander  Selkirk,  only  elaborated  into 
more  detail,  just  as  a  modern  reporter  might  give  us  an 
account  of  Mr.  Stanley's  African  expedition  if  Mr.  Stanley 
had  been  unable  to  do  so  for  himself  He  is  always  in  the 
attitude  of  mind  of  the  newspaper  correspondent,  who  has 
been  interviewing  the  hero  of  an  interesting  story  and 
ventures  at  most  a  little  safe  embroidery.  This  explains  a 
remark  made  by  Dickens,  who  complained  that  the  account 
of  Friday's  death  showed  an  '  utter  want  of  tenderness  and 
sentiment,'  and  says  somewhere  that  '  Robinson  Crusoe  '  is 
the  only  great  novel  which  never  moves  either  to  laugliter 
or  to  tears.  The  creator  of  Oliver  Twist  and  Little  Nell  was 
naturally  scandalised  by  De  Foe's  dry  and  matter-of-fact 
narrative.  But  De  Foe  had  never  approached  the  concep- 
tion of  his  art  which  afterwards  became  familiar.  He  had 
nothing  to  do  with  sentiment  or  psychology  ;  those  ele- 
ments of  interest  came  in  with  Richardson  and  Fielding  ; 
he  was  simply  telling  a  true  story  and  leaving  his  readers 
to  feel  what  they  pleased.  It  never  even  occurred  to  him, 
more  than  it  occurs  to  the  ordinary  reporter,  to  analyse 
character  or  describe  scenery  or  work  up  sentiment.  He 
was  simply  a  narrator  of  plain  facts.  He  left  poetry  and 
reflection  to  Mr.  Pope  or  Mr,  Addison,  as  your  straight- 
forward annalist  in  a  newspaper  has  no  thoughts  of  rivalling 
Lord  Tennyson  or  Mr.  Froude.  His  narratives  were 
fictitious  only  in  the  sense  that  the   facts  did  not  happen  ; 


44  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

but  that  trifling  circumstance  was  to  make  no  difference  to 
the  mode  of  writing  them.  The  poetical  element  would 
have  been  as  much  out  of  place  as  it  would  have  been  in  a 
merchant's  ledger.  He  could  not,  indeed,  help  introducing 
a  little  moralising,  for  he  was  a  typical  English  middle- 
class  dissenter.  Some  of  his  simple-minded  commentators 
have  even  given  hirn  credit,  upon  the  strength  of  such 
passages,  for  lofty  moral  purpose.  They  fancy  that  his 
lives  of  criminals,  real  or  imaginary,  were  intended  to  be 
tracts  showing  that  vice  leads  to  the  gallows.  No  doubt, 
De  Foe  had  the  same  kind  of  solid  homespun  morality  as 
Hogarth,  for  example,  which  was  not  in  its  way  a  bad  thing- 
But  one  need  not  be  very  cynical  to  believe  that  his  real 
object  in  writing  such  books  was  to  produce  something 
that  would  sell,  and  that  in  the  main  he  was  neither  more 
nor  less  moral  than  the  last  newspaper  writer  who  has  told 
us  the  story  of  a  sensational  murder. 

De  Foe,  therefore,  may  be  said  to  have  stumbled  almost 
unconsciously  into  novel-writing.  He  was  merely  aiming  at 
true  stories,  which  happened  not  to  be  true.  But  accident- 
ally, or  rather  unconsciously,  he  could  not  help  presenting 
us  with  a  type  of  curious  interest  ;  for  he  necessarily 
described  himself  and  the  readers  whose  tastes  he  under- 
stood and  shared  so  thoroughly.  His  statement  that 
'  Robinson  Crusoe '  was  a  kind  of  allegory  was  truer  than  he 
knew.  In  '  Robinson  Crusoe'  is  De  Foe,  and  more  than 
De  Foe,  for  he  is  the  typical  Englishman  of  his  time.  He  is 
the  broad-shouldered,  beef-eating  John  Bull,  who  has  been 
shouldering  his  way  through  the  world  ever  since.  Drop 
him  in  a  desert  island,  and  he  is  just  as  sturdy  and  self- 
composed  as  if  he  were  in  Cheapside.  Instead  of  shrieking 
or  writing  poetry,  becoming  a   wild  hunter  or  a  religious 


DE  FOE'S  NOVELS  45 

hermit,  he  calmly  sets  about  building  a  house  and   making 
pottery  and  laying  out  a  farm.     He  does  not  accommodate 
himself  to  his  surroundings  ;  they  have  got  to  accommodate 
themselves  to  him.     He  meets  a  savage  and  at  once  annexes 
him,  and  preaches  him  such  a  sermon  as  he  had  heard  from 
the  exemplary  Dr.  Doddridge.     Cannibals  come  to  make  a 
meal  of  him,  and  he  calmly  stamps  them  out  with  the  means 
provided  by  civilisation.     Long  years  of  solitude  produce  no 
sort  of  effect  upon  him  morally  or  mentally.     He  comes  home 
as  he  went  out,  a  solid  keen  tradesman,  having,  somehow  or 
other,  plenty  of  money  in  his  pockets,  and  ready  to  undertake 
similar  risks  in  the  hope  of  making  a  little  more.     He  has 
taken  his  own  atmosphere  with  him  to  the  remotest  quarters. 
Wherever  he  has  set  down  his  solid  foot,  he  has  taken  per- 
manent possession  of  the  country.     The  ancient  religions  of 
the  primaeval  East  or  the  quaint  beliefs  of  savage  tribes  make 
no  particular  impression  upon  him,  except  a  passing  spasm 
of  disgust  at  anybody  having  different  superstitions  from  his 
own  ;  and,  being  in  the  main  a  good-natured  animal  in  a  stolid 
way  of  his  own,  he  is  able  to  make  use  even  of  popish  priests 
if  they  will  help  to  found  a  new  market  for  his  commerce. 
The  portrait  is  not  the  less  effective  because  the  artist  was  so 
far  from  intending  it  that  he  could  not  even  conceive  of  any- 
body being  differentl)  constituted  from  himself.     It  shows  us 
all  the  more  vividly  what  was  the  manner  of  man  represented 
by  the  stalwart  Englishman  of  the  day  ;  what  were  the  men 
who  were  building  up  vast  systems  of  commerce  and  manu- 
facture ;  shoving  their  intrusive  persons  into  every  quarter 
of  the  globe  ;  evolving  a  great  empire  out  of  a  few  factories 
in   the    East  ;    winning   the   American   continent    for    the 
dominant  English  race  ;  sweeping  up  Australia  by  the  way 
as  a  convenient  settlement  for  convicts  ;  stamping  firmly  and 


46  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

decisively  on  all  toes  that  got  in  their  way  ;  blundering 
enormously  and  preposterously,  and  yet  always  coming  out 
steadily  planted  on  their  feet  ;  eating  roast  beef  and  plum- 
pudding  ;  drinking  rum  in  the  tropics  ;  singing  '  God  vSave 
the  King '  and  intoning  Watts's  hymns  under  the  nose  of 
ancient  dynasties  and  prehistoric  priesthoods ;  managing 
always  to  get  their  own  way,  to  force  a  reluctant  world  to 
take  note  of  them  ^s  a  great  if  rather  disagreeable  fact,  and 
making  it  probable  that,  in  long  ages  to  come,  the  English 
of  '  Robinson  Crusoe '  will  be  the  native  language  of  inhabi- 
tants of  every  region  under  the  sun. 


RICHARDSON'S  NO  VELS 

The  literary  artifice,  so  often  patronised  by  Lord  Macaulay, 
of  describing  a  character  by  a  series  of  paradoxes,  is  of 
course,  in  one  sense,  a  mere  artifice.  It  is  easy  enough  to 
make  a  dark  grey  black  and  a  light  grey  white,  and  to  bring 
the  two  into  unnatural  proximity.  But  it  rests  also  upon  the 
principle  which  is  more  of  a  platitude  than  a  paradox,  that 
our  chief  faults  often  lie  close  to  our  chief  merits.  The 
greatest  man  is  perhaps  one  who  is  so  equably  developed 
that  he  has  the  strongest  faculties  in  the  most  perfect 
equilibrium,  and  is  apt  to  be  somewhat  uninteresting  to  the 
rest  of  mankind.  The  man  of  lower  eminence  has  some 
one  or  more  faculties  developed  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
rest,  with  the  natural  result  of  occasionally  overbalancing 
him.  Extraordinary  memories  with  weak  logical  faculties, 
wonderful  imaginative  sensibility  with  a  complete  absence 
of  self-control,  and  other  defective  conformations  of  mind, 
supply  the  raw  materials  for  a  luminary  of  the  second  order, 
and  imply  a  predisposition  to  certain  faults,  which  arc 
natural  complements  to  the  conspicuous  merits. 

Such  reflections  naturally  occur  in  speaking  of  one  of 
our  greatest  literary  reputations,  whose  popularity  is  almost 
in  an  inverse  ratio  to  his  celebrit)-.  Every  one  knows  the 
names  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  and  Clarissa  Harlowe. 
They  are   amongst   the   established   types  which  serve  to 


48  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

point   a   paragraph  ;    but   the  volumes  in  which  they  are 
described  remain  for  the  most  part  in   undisturbed  repose, 
sleeping  peacefully  amongst  Charles  Lamb's  biblia  a-biblia, 
books  which  are  no  books,  or,  as  he  explains,  those  books 
'  which  no  gentleman's  library  should  be  without.'     They 
never  enjoy  the  honours  of  cheap  reprints  ;  the  modern 
reader  shudders  at  a  novel  in  eight  volumes,  and  declines 
to  dig  for  amusement  in  so  profound  a  mine  ;  when  some 
bold  inquirer  dips  into  their  pages  he  generally  fancies  that 
the  sleep  of  years  has  been  somehow  absorbed  into   the 
paper ;  a  certain  soporific  aroma  exhales  from  the  endless 
files  of  fictitious  correspondence.     This  contrast,  however, 
between  popularity  and  celebrity  is  not  so  rare  as  to  deserve 
special  notice.     Richardson's  slumber  may  be  deeper  than 
that  of  most  men  of  equal  fame,  but  it  is  not  quite  unpre- 
cedented.     The  string  of  paradoxes,   which   it  would  be 
easy  to  apply  to  Richardson,  would  turn  upon  a  different 
point.     The  odd  thing  is,  not  that  so  many  people  should 
have  forgotten  him,  but  that  he  should  have  been  remem- 
bered by  people  at  first  sight  so  unlike  him.     Here  is  a  man, 
we  might  say,  whose  special  characteristic  it  was  to  be  a 
milksop — who  provoked  Fielding  to  a  coarse  hearty  burst  of 
ridicule — who  was  steeped  in  the  incense  of  useless  adulation 
from  a  throng  of  middle-aged  lady  worshippers — who  wrote 
his    novels    expressly   to   recommend  little   unimpeachable 
moral  maxims,  as  that  evil  courses  lead  to  unhappy  deaths, 
that   ladies   ought    to   observe  the  laws  of  propriety,  and 
generally   that  it  is  an   excellent    thing    to    be    thoroughly 
respectable ;  who  lived  an  obscure  life  in  a  petty  coterie  in 
fourth-rate    London    society,    and   was   in   no   respect  at  a 
point  of  view   more  exalted  than  that   of  his  companions. 
What  greater  contrast  can  be  imagined  in  its  way  than  that 


KIC/IARDSON'S  A'OVELS  49 

between  Richardson,  with  his  second-rate  eighteenth-century 
priggishness  and  his  twopenny-tract  morality,  and  the 
modern  school  of  French  novelists,  who  are  certainly  not 
prigs,  and  whose  morality  is  by  no  means  that  of  tracts  ? 
We  might  have  expected  a  priori  that  they  would  have 
summarily  put  him  down,  as  a  hopeless  Philistine.  Yet 
Richardson  was  idolised  by  some  of  their  best  writers  ; 
Balzac,  for  example,  and  George  Sand,  speak  of  him  with 
reverence  ;  and  a  writer  who  is,  perhaps,  as  odd  a  contrast 
to  Richardson  as  could  well  be  imagined— Alfred  de 
Musset — calls  '  Clarissa  '  le  premier  romaii  du  mo)ide.  A\'hat 
is  the  secret  which  enables  the  steady  old  printer,  with  his 
singular  limitation  to  his  own  career  of  time  and  space,  to 
impose  upon  the  Byronic  Parisian  of  the  next  century  ? 
Amongst  his  contemporaries  Diderot  expresses  an  almost 
fanatical  admiration  of  Richardson  for  his  purity  and  power, 
and  declares  characteristically  that  he  wull  place  Richardson's 
works  on  the  same  shelf  with  those  of  Moses,  Homer, 
Euripides,  and  other  favourite  writers  ;  he  even  goes  so  far 
as  to  excuse  Clarissa's  belief  in  Christianity  on  the  ground 
of  her  youthful  innocence.  To  continue  in  the  paradoxical 
vein,  we  might  ask  how  the  quiet  tradesman  could  create 
the  character  which  has  stood  ever  since  for  a  type  of  the 
fine  gentleman  of  the  period  ;  or  how  from  the  most  prosaic 
of  centuries  should  spring  one  of  the  most  poetical  of 
feminine  ideals  ?  We  can  hardly  fancy  a  genuine  hero  with 
a  pigtail,  or  a  heroine  in  a  hoop  and  high-heeled  shoes, 
nor  beheve  that  persons  who  wore  those  articles  of  costume 
could  possess  any  very  exalted  virtues.  Perhaps  our  grand- 
children may  have  the  same  difficulty  about  the  race  which 
wears  crinoUnes  and  chimney-pot  hats. 

It  is  a  fact,  however,  that  our  grandfathers,  in  spite  of 

VOL.    I.  E 


50  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

their    belief  in   pigtails,  and    in  Pope's  poetry,  and  other 
matters  that  have  gone  out  of  fashion,  had  some  very  excel- 
lent qualities,  and  even  some  genuine  sentiment,  in  their 
compositions.     Indeed,   now  that  their  peculiarities    have 
been  finally  packed  away  in  various  lumber-rooms,  and  the 
revolt   against    the   old-fashioned   school    of  thought   and 
manners  has  become  triumphant  instead  of  militant,  we  are 
beginning   to   see  the  picturesque  side  of  their  character. 
They  have  gathered  something  of  the  halo  that  comes  with 
the  lapse  of  years  ;  and  social  habits  that  looked  prosaic 
enough  to  contemporaries,  and  to  the  generation  which  had  to 
fight  against  them,  have  gained  a  touch  of  romance.    Richard- 
son's characters  wear  a  costume  and  speak  a  language  which 
are  indeed  queer  and  old-fashioned,  but  are  now  far  enough 
removed  from  the  present  to  have  a  certain  piquancy ;  and 
it  is  becoming  easier  to  recognise  the  real  genius  which 
created  them,  as  the  active  aversion  to  the  forms  in  which 
it  was  necessarily  clothed  tends  to  disappear.    The  wigs  and 
the  high-heeled  shoes  are  not  without  a  certain  pleasing 
quaintness  ;  and  when  we  have  surmounted  this  cause  of 
disgust,  we  can  see  more  plainly  what  was  the  real  power 
which  men  of  the  most  opposite  schools  in  art  have  recog- 
nised.   Readers  whose  appetite  for  ancient  fiction  is  insuffi- 
cient to  impel  them  to  a  perusal  of  '  Clarissa '  may  yet  find 
some  amusement  in  turning  over  the  curious  collection  of 
letters  published  with  a  life  by  Mrs.    Barbauld   in    1804. 
Nowhere  can  we  find  a  more  vivid  picture  of  the  social 
stratum  to  which  Richardson  belonged.     We  take  a  seat  in 
the  old  gentleman's  shop,  or  drop  in  to  take  a  dish  of  tea  with 
him  at  North  End,  in  Hammersmith.     We  learn  to  know 
them  almost  as  well  as  we  know  the  Hterary  circle  of  the  next 
generation  from  Boswell  or  the  higher  social  sphere  from 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  51 

Horace  Walpole — and  it  is  a  pleasant  relief,  after  reading 
the  solemn  histories  which  recall  the  struggles  of  Walpole 
and  Chesterfield  and  their  like,  to  drop  in  upon  this  quiet 
little  coterie  of  homely  commonplace  people  leading  calm 
domestic  lives  and  amusingly  unconscious  of  the  political 
and  intellectual  storms  which  were  raging  outside.  Richard- 
son himself  was  the  typical  industrious  apprentice.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  London  tradesman  who  had  witnessed  with 
due  horror  the  Popish  machinations  of  James  H.  Richard- 
son, born  just  after  the  Revolution,  had  been  apprenticed 
to  a  printer,  married  his  master's  daughter,  set  up  a  fairly 
successful  business,  was  master  of  the  Stationers'  Company 
in  1754,  and  was  prosperous  enough  to  have  his  country 
box,  first  at  North  End  and  afterwards  at  Parson's  Green. 
He  never  learnt  any  language  but  his  own.  He  had  taken 
to  writing  from  his  infancy  ;  he  composed  little  stories  of 
an  edifying  tendency  and  had  written  love-letters  for  young 
women  of  his  acquaintance.  From  his  experience  in  these 
departments  he  acquired  the  skill  which  was  afterwards 
displayed  in  '  Pamela  '  and  his  two  later  and  superior  novels. 
We  hear  dimly  of  many  domestic  trials  :  of  the  loss  of 
children,  some  of  whom  had  lived  to  be  '  delightful  prattlers,' 
of  'eleven  affecting  deaths  in  two  years.'  Who  were  the 
eleven  remains  unknown.  His  sorrows  have  long  passed 
into  oblivion,  unless  so  far  as  the  sentiment  was  transmuted 
into  his  writings.  We  do  not  know  whether  it  was  from 
calamity  or  constitutional  infirmity  that  he  became  a  very 
nervous  and  tremulous  little  man.  He  never  dared  to  ride, 
but  exercised  himself  on  a  '  chamber-horse,'  one  of  which 
apparently  wooden  animals  he  kept  at  each  of  his  houses. 
For  years  he  could  not  raise  a  glass  to  his  lips  without  help. 
His  dread  of  altercations  prevented  him  from  going  often 

E  2 


52  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

among  his  workmen  He  gave  his  orders  in  writing  that  he 
might  not  have  to  bawl  to  a  deaf  foreman.  He  gave  up  '  wine 
and  flesh  and  fish.'  He  drew  a  capital  portrait  of  himself,  for 
the  benefit  of  a  lady  still  unknown  to  him,  who  recognised 
him  by  its  help  at  a  distance  of  '  above  three  hundred  yards.' 
His  description  is  minute  enough  : '  Short ;  rather  plump  than 
emaciated,  notwithstanding  his  complaints ;  about  5  foot 
5  inches  ;  fair  wig,  lightish  cloth  coat,  all  black  besides  ;  one 
hand  generally  in  his  bosom,  the  other,  a  cane  in  it,  which 
he  leans  upon  under  the  skirts  of  his  coat  usually,  that  it 
may  imperceptibly  serve  him  as  a  support  when  attacked 
by  sudden  tremors  or  startings  and  dizziness,  which  too 
frequently  attack  liim,  but,  thank  God,  not  so  often  as 
formerly  ;  looking  directly  foreright,  as  passers  by  would 
imagine,  but  observing  all  that  stirs  on  either  hand  of  him 
without  moving  his  short  neck  ;  hardly  ever  turning  back  ; 
of  a  light  brown  complexion  ;  teeth  not  yet  failing  him  ; 
smoothish-faced  and  ruddy-cheeked ;  at  some  times  looking 
to  be  about  sixty-five,  at  others  much  younger  '  (really  sixty)  ; 
'  a  regular  even  pace  stealing  away  ground  rather  than  seem- 
ing to  rid  it  ;  a  grey  eye,  too  often  overclouded  by  mistinesses 
from  the  head  ;  by  chance  lively-  very  lively  it  will  be  if 
he  have  hopes  of  seeing  a  lady  whom  he  loves  and  honours  ; 
his  eye  always  on  the  ladies  ;  if  they  have  very  large  hoops, 
he  looks  down  and  supercilious  and  as  if  he  would  be 
thought  wise,  but  perhaps  the  sillier  for  that  ;  as  he  ap- 
proaches a  lady  his  eye  is  never  fixed  first  upon  her  face 
but  upon  her  feet,  and  thence  he  raises  it  up  pretty  quickly  for 
a  dull  eye  ;  and  one  would  think  (if  we  thought  him  at  all 
worthy  of  observation)  that  from  her  air  and  the  last 
beheld  (her  face)  he  sets  her  down  in  his  mind  as  so  and  so, 
and  then  passes  on  to  the  next  object  he  meets  ;  only  then 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  53 

looking  back,  if  he  grently  likes  or  dislikes,  as  if  he  would 
see  if  the  lady  appear  to  be  all  of  a  piece  in  the  one  light  or 
the  other.'  After  this  admirable  likeness  we  can  appreciate 
better  the  two  coloured  engravings  in  the  letters.  Richard- 
son looks  like  a  plump  white  mouse  in  a  wig,  at  once  vivacious 
and  timid.  We  see  him  in  one  picture  toddling  along  the 
Pantiles  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
great  Mr.  Pitt  and  Speaker  Onslow  and  the  bigamous 
Duchess  of  Kingston  and  Colley  Gibber  and  the  cracked 
and  shrivelled-up  Whiston  and  a  (perhaps  not  the  famous) 
Mr.  Johnson  in  company  with  a  bishop.  In  the  other,  he 
is  sitting  in  his  parlour  with  its  stiff  old-fashioned  furniture 
and  a  glimpse  into  the  garden,  reading  '  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son  '  to  the  admirable  Miss  Mulso,  afterwards  Mrs.  Chapone, 
and  a  small  party,  inclusive  of  the  artist.  Miss  Highmore, 
to  whom  we  owe  sincere  gratitude  for  this  peep  into  the 
past.  Richardson  sits  in  his  'usual  morning  dress,' a  kind 
of  brown  dressing-gown  with  a  skull  cap  on  his  head,  filling 
the  chair  with  his  plump  little  body,  and  raising  one  foot 
(or  has  the  artist  found  difficulties  in  planting  both  upon  the 
ground  ?)  to  point  his  moral  with  an  emphatic  stamp. 

Many  eminent  men  of  his  time  were  polite  to  Richardson 
after  he  had  won  fame  at  the  mature  age  of  fifty.  He  was 
not  the  man  to  presume  on  his  position.  He  was  'very shy 
of  obtruding  himself  on  persons  of  condition.'  He  never 
rose  like  Pope,  whose  origin  was  not  very  dissimilar,  to  speak 
to  princes  and  ministers  as  an  equal.  He  was  always  the 
obsequious  and  respectful  shopkeeper.  The  great  Warburton 
wrote  a  letter  to  his  '  good  sir ' — a  phrase  equivalent  to  the 
two  fingers  of  a  dignified  greeting — -suggesting,  in  Pope's 
name  and  his  own,  a  plan  for  continuing  '  Pamela.'  She 
was  to  be  the  ingenuous  young  person  shocked  at  the  con- 


54  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

ventionalities  of  good  society.  Richardson  sensibly  declined 
a  plan  for  which  he  was  unfitted;  and  in  1747  Warburton 
condescended  to  write  a  preface  to  'Clarissa  Harlowe,' 
pointing  out  (very  superfluously  !)  the  nature  of  the  intended 
moral.  Warburton  afterwards  took  offence  at  a  passage  in 
the  same  book  which  he  took  to  glance  at  Pope  ;  and 
Richardson  was  on  friendly  terms  with  two  authors,  Edwards 
of  the  '  Canons  of  Criticism, 'and  Aaron  Hill,  vvho  were  among 
the  multitudinous  enemies  of  Warburton  and  his  patron 
Pope.  Hill's  letters  in  the  correspondence  arc  worth  read- 
ing as  illustrations  of  the  old  moral  of  literary  vanity.  He 
expresses  with  unusual  naivete  the  doctrine,  so  pleasant 
to  the  unsuccessful,  that  success  means  the  reverse  of  merit. 
Pope's  fame  was  due  to  personal  assiduities,  and  'a  certain 
bladdery  swell  of  management.'  It  is  already  passing  away_ 
He  does  not  speak  from  jealousy,  for  nobody  ever  courted 
fame  '  with  less  solicitude  than  I.'  But  for  all  that,  there 
will  come  a  time  !  He  knows  it  on  a  surer  ground  than 
vanity.  Let  us  hope  that  this  little  salve  to  self-esteem 
never  lost  its  efficacy.  Surely  of  all  prayers  the  most  in- 
judicious was  that  of  Burns,  that  we  might  see  ourselves 
as  others  see  us.  What  would  become  of  us  ?  Richardson, 
as  we  might  expect,  was  highly  esteemed  by  Young  of  the 
'  Night  Thoughts,'  and  by  Johnson,  to  both  of  whom  he 
seems  to  have  given  substantial  proofs  of  friendship.  He 
wrote  the  only  number  of  the  '  Rambler '  which  had  a  good 
sale,  and  helped  Johnson  when  under  arrest  for  debt ; 
Johnson  repaid  him  by  the  phrase,  which  long  passed  for 
the  orthodox  decision,  that  Richardson  taught  the  passions 
to  move  at  the  command  of  virtue.  But  the  most  dehghtful 
of  Richardson's  friends  was  the  irrepressible  CoUey  Cibber. 
Mrs.  Pilkington,  a  disreputable  adventuress,  faintly  remem- 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  55 

bered  by  her  relations  to  Swift,  describes  Gibber's  reception 
of  the  unpublished  '  Clarissa.'  '  The  dear  gentleman  did 
almost  rave.     When  I  told  him  that  she  (Clarissa)  must  die, 

he  said  G d — —  him  if  she  should,  and  that  he  should 

no  longer  believe  Providence  or  eternal  wisdom  or  goodness 
governed  the  world  if  merit  and  innocence  and  beauty  were 
to  be  so  destroyed.  "Nay,"  added  he,  "my  mind  is  so 
hurt  with  the  thought  of  her  being  violated,  that  were  I  to 
see  her  in  heaven,  sitting  on  the  knees  of  the  blessed  Virgin 
and  crowned  with  glory,  her  sufferings  would  still  make 
me  feel  horror,  horror  distilled."  These  were  his  strongly 
emphatical  impressions.'  Cibber's  own  letters  are  as  lively 
as  Mrs.  Pilkington's  report  of  his  talk.  'The  delicious 
meal  I  made  off  Miss  Byron  on  Sunday  last,'  he  says,  'has 
given  me  an  appetite  for  another  slice  of  her,  off  from  the 
spit,  before  she  is  served  up  to  the  public  table  ;  if  about 
five  o'clock  to-morrow  afternoon  be  not  inconvenient,  Mrs. 
Brown  and  I  will  come  and  nibble  upon  a  bit  more  of  her  ! 
And  we  have  grace  after  meat  as  well  as  before.'  '  The 
devil  take  the  insolent  goodness  of  your  imagination  !  ' 
exclaims  the  lively  old  buck,  now  past  eighty,  and  as  well 
preserved  as  if  he  had  never  encountered  Pope's  '  scathing 
satire '  (does  satire  ever  '  scathe '  ?)  or  Fielding's  rough 
horseplay.  One  of  Richardson's  lady  admirers  saw  Cibber 
flirting  with  fine  ladies  at  Tunbridge  Wells  in  1754  (he  was 
born  in  167 1),  and  miserable  when  he  was  neglected  for  a 
moment  by  the  greatest  bclk  in  the  society.  He  professed 
to  be  only  seventy-seven  ! 

Perhaps  even  Cibber  was  beaten  in  flattery  by  the 
'  minister  of  the  gospel '  who  thought  that  if  some  of 
Clarissa's  letters  had  been  found  in  the  Bible  they  would 
have  been  regarded  as  manifest  proofs  of  divine  inspiration. 


56  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

But  the  more  delightful  incense  came  from  the  circle  of 
admiring  young  ladies  who  called  him  their  dear  papa  ;  who 
passed  long  days  at  his  feet  at  Parson's  Green  ;  allowed  him 
to  escape  to  his  summer-house  to  add  a  letter  to  the  grow- 
ing volumes,  and  after  an  early  dinner  persuaded  him  to 
read  it  aloud.  Their  eager  discussions  as  to  the  fate  of  the 
characters  and  the  little  points  of  morality  which  arose  are 
continued  in  his  gossiping  letters.  AMien  a  child  he  had 
been  the  confidant  of  tender-hearted  maidens,  and  now 
he  became  a  kind  of  spiritual  director.  He  was,  as  Miss 
Collier  said,  the  '  only  champion  and  protector  '  of  her  sex. 
Women,  and  surely  they  must  be  good  judges,  thought  that 
he  understood  the  feminine  heart,  as  their  descendants 
afterwards  attributed  the  same  power  to  Balzac.  The  most 
attractive  of  his  feminine  correspondents  was  Mrs.  Klop- 
stock,  wife  of  the  '  German  Milton,'  who  tells  her  only  little 
love  story  with  charming  simplicity,  and  thus  lays  her 
homage  at  the  feet  of  Richardson.  '  Honoured  sir,  will 
you  permit  me  to  take  this  opportunity,  in  sending  a  letter 
to  Dr.  Young,  to  address  myself  to  you  ?  It  is  very  long 
that  I  wished  to  do  it.  Having  finished  your  "  Clarissa  "  (oh, 
the  heavenly  book  !),  I  would  have  prayed  you  to  write  the 
history  of  a  manly  Clarissa,  but  I  had  not  courage  enough 
at  that  time.  I  should  have  it  no  more  to-day,  as  this  is 
only  my  first  English  letter  ;  Init  I  have  it  !  It  may  be 
because  I  am  now  Klopstock's  wife  (I  believe  you  know  my 
husband  by  Mr.  Hohorst),  and  then  I  was  only  the  single 
young  girl.  You  have  since  written  the  manly  Clarissa 
without  my  prayer  ;  oh,  you  have  done  it  to  the  great  joy 
and  thanks  of  all  your  happy  readers  !  Now  you  can  write 
no  more,  you  must  write  the  history  of  an  angel  ! ' 

Mrs.  Klopstock  died  young  ;  having  had  the  happiness 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  57 

to  find  that  Richardson  did  not  resent  her  intrusion, 
great  author  as  he  was.  Another  correspondent,  Lady 
Bradshaigh,  wife  of  a  Lancashire  country  gentleman,  took 
precautions  which  show  what  a  halo  then  surrounded  the 
author  in  the  eyes  of  his  countrywomen.  It  was  worth 
while  to  be  an  author  then  !  Lady  Bradshaigh  was  a  good 
housewife,  it  seems,  but,  having  no  children,  was  able  to 
devote  some  time  to  reading.  She  obtained  a  portrait  of 
Richardson,  ])ut  altered  the  name  to  Dickenson,  in  order 
that  no  one  might  suspect  her  of  corresponding  with  an 
author.  After  reading  the  first  four  volumes  of  '  Clarissa ' 
(which  were  separately  published),  she  wrote  under  a  feigned 
name  to  beg  the  author  to  alter  the  impending  catastrophe. 
She  spoke  as  the  mouthpiece  of  a  '  multitude  of  admirers  ' 
who  desired  to  see  Lovelace  reformed  and  married  to 
Clarissa.  '  Sure  you  will  think  it  worth  your  while,  sir,  to 
save  his  soul  ! '  she  exclaims.  Richardson  was  too  good  an 
artist  to  spoil  his  tragedy  ;  and  was  rewarded  by  an  account 
of  her  emotions  on  reading  the  last  volumes.  She  laid  the 
book  down  in  agonies,  took  it  up  again,  shed  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  couch  to  compose  her 
mind.  Her  husband,  who  was  plodding  after  her,  begged 
her  to  read  no  more.  But  she  had  promised  Richardson  to 
finish  the  book.  She  nerved  herself  for  the  task  ;  her  sleep 
was  broken,  she  woke  in  tears  during  the  night,  and  burst  into 
tears  at  her  meals.  Charmed  by  her  delicious  sufferings, 
she  became  Richardson's  friend  for  life,  though  it  was  long 
before  she  could  muster  up  courage  to  meet  him  face  to 
face. 

Yet  Lady  Bradshaigh  seems  to  have  been  a  sensible 
woman,  and  shows  vivacity  and  intelligence  in  some  of  her 
discussions  with    Richardson.     If   he   was   not   altogether 


r 


L 


58  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

spoilt  by  the  flattery  of  so  many  excellent  women,  we  can 
only  explain  it  by  remembering  that  he  did  not  become 
famous  till  be  was  past  fifty,  and  therefore  past  spoiling. 
One  peculiarity,  indeed,  is  rather  unpleasant  in  these  letters. 
Richardson's  worshippers  evidently  felt  that  their  deity  was 
jealous,  and  made  no  scruple  of  offering  the  base  sacrifice  of 
abuse  of  rival  celebrities.  Richardson  adopts  their  tone  ; 
he  is  always  gibing  at  Fielding.  •  /  could  not  help  telling 
his  sister^  he  obsenes — a  sister,  too,  whose  merits  Fielding 
had  praised  with  his  usual  generosity — '  that  I  was  equally 
siurprised  at  and  concerned  for  his  continuous  lowness. 
Had  your  brother,  said  I,  been  born  in  a  stable  or  been  a 
runner  at  a  sponging-house  we  should  have  thought  him  a 
genius,'  but  now  !  So  another  great  writer  came  just  in 
time  to  be  judged  by  Richardson.  A  bishop  asked  him 
'  Who  is  this  Yorick,"  who  has,  it  seems,  been  countenanced 
by  an  'ingenious  dutchess  ? '  Richardson  briefly  replies  that 
the  bishop  cannot  have  looked  into  the  books,  •  execrable  I 
cannot  but  call  them.'  Their  only  merit  is  that  they  are 
'too  gross  to  be  inflaming.'  The  history  of  the  mutual 
judgments  upon  each  other  of  contemporary'  authors  would 
be  more  amusing  than  edifying. 

Richardson  should  not  have  been  so  hard  upon  Sterne, 
for  Sterne  was  in  some  d^ree  following  Richardson's  lead. 
'  What  is  the  meaning,'  asks  Lady  Bradshaigh  (about  1 749) 
'  of  the  word  sentimental,  so  much  in  vogue  among  the  polite 
both  in  town  and  countr}-  ?  Everything  clever  and  agree- 
able is  comprehended  in  that  word  ;  but  I  am  convinced 
a  wrong  interpretation  is  given,  because  it  is  impossible 
everything  clever  and  agreeable  can  be  so  common  as  that 
word.'  She  has  heard  of  a  sentimental  man  ;  a  sentimental 
part),  and  a  sentimental  walk  ;  and  has  been  applauded  for 


RICHARDSO.^'S  NOVELS  59 

calling  a  letter  sentimental.  I  hope  that  the  philological  dic- 
tionary may  tell  us  what  was  the  first  appearance  of  a  word 
which,  in  this  sense,  marks  an  epoch  in  literature,  and, 
indeed,  in  much  else.  I  find  the  word  used  in  the  old  sense 
in  1752  in  a  pamphlet  upon  '  se/ifimen/a/  differences  in  point 
of  faith,'  that  is,  differences  of  sentiment  or  opinion.  When, 
a  few  years  later,  Sterne  published  his  'Sentimental  Journey,' 
Wesley  asks  in  his  journal  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  new 
phrase,  and  observes  (the  illustration  has  lost  its  point)  that 
you  might  as  well  say  continental.  The  appearance  of  the 
phrase  coincides  with  the  appearance  of  the  thing  ;  for 
Richardson  was  the  first  sentimentalist.  We  may  trace 
the  same  movement  elsewhere,  though  we  need  not  here 
speculate  upon  the  cause.  Pope's  '  Essay  on  Man '  is  the 
expression  in  verse  of  the  dominant  theolog)-  of  the  Deists 
and  their  opponents,  which  was  beginning  to  be  condemned 
as  dry  and  frigid.  A  desire  for  something  more  '  senti- 
mental' shows  itself  in  Young's  'Night  Thoughts,'  in 
Hervey's  '  ^Meditations,'  and  appears  in  the  religious  domain 
as  Methodism.  The  literary  historian  has  to  trace  the  rise 
of  the  same  tendency  in  various  places.  In  Germany,  as 
we  see  from  Mrs.  Klopstock's  enthusiasm,  the  flame  was 
only  waiting  for  the  spark.  Goethe,  in  his  '  Wahrheit  und 
Dichtung,'  notices  the  influence  of  Richardson's  novels  in 
Germany.  They  were  among  the  predisposing  causes  of 
Wertherism.  In  France,  as  I  have  said,  Richardson  found 
congenial  hearers,  and  Clarissa's  soul  doubtless  transmi- 
grated into  the  heroine  of  the  '  Xouvelle  Heloise.'  Even  in 
stubborn  England,  where  Fielding's  masculine  contempt  for 
the  whinings  of  '  Pamela  '  was  more  congenial,  the  students  of 
Richardson  were  prepared  to  receive '  Ossian '  with  enthusiasm, 
and  to  be  ecstatic  over  '  Tristram  Shandv.'    That  Richardson 


6o  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

would  have  agreed  with  Johnson  in  regarding  Rousseau  as 
fit  only  for  a  penal  settlement,  and  that  he  actually  con- 
sidered Sterne  to  be  '  execrable,'  does  not  relieve  him  of  the 
responsibility  or  deprive  him  of  the  glory.  He  is  not  the 
only  writer  who  has  helped  to  evoke  a  spirit  which  he 
would  be  the  last  to  sanction.  When  he  encouraged  his 
admirably  proper  young  ladies  to  indulge  in  '  sentimen- 
talism,'  he  could  not  tell  where  so  vague  an  impulse  would 
ultimately  land  them.  He  was  a  sound  Tory,  and  an 
accepter  of  all  established  creeds.  Sentimentalism  with' 
him  was  merely  a  delight  in  cultivating  the  emotions 
without  any  thought  of  consequences  ;  or,  later,  of  cultivating 
them  with  the  assumption  that  they  would  continue  to 
move,  as  he  bade  them,  '  at  the  command  of  virtue.'  Once 
set  in  motion,  they  chose  to  take  paths  of  their  own  ;  they 
revolted  against  conventions,  even  those  which  he  held 
most  sacred ;  and  by  degrees  set  up  '  Nature  '  as  an  idol, 
and  admired  the  ingenuous  savage  instead  of  the  respectable 
Clarissa,  and  denounced  all  corruption,  including,  alas,  the 
British  constitution,  and  even  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  and 
put  themselves  at  the  disposal  of  all  manner  of  revolutionary 
audacities.  But  the  little  printer  was  safe  in  his  grave,  and 
knew  not  of  what  strange  developments  he  had  been  the 
ignorant  accomplice. 

To  return,  however,  it  must  be  granted  that  Richardson's 
sympathy  with  women  gives  a  remarkable  power  to  his 
works.  Nothing  is  more  rare  than  to  find  a  great  novelist 
who  can  satisfactorily  describe  the  opposite  sex.  Women's 
heroes  are  women  in  disguise,  or  mere  lay-figures,  walking 
gentlemen  who  parade  tolerably  through  their  parts,  but 
have  no  real  vitality.  On  the  other  hand,  the  heroines  of 
male  writers  are  for  the  most   part   unnaturally  strained  or 


RICHAJWSON'S  NOVELS  6i 

quite  colourless  ;  mpldbnnrk  are  too  heavy  for  the  delicate 
work  required.  Milton  could  dra'^r  a  majestic  Satan,  but 
his  Eve  is  no  better  than  a  good-managing  housekeeper  who 
knows  her  place.  It  is,  therefore,  remarkable  that  Richard- 
son's greatest  triumph  should  be  in  describing  a  woman, 
■  and  that  most  of  his  feminine  characters  are  more  life-like 
and  more  delicately  discriminated  than  his  men.  Unluckily,  ~1 
his  conspicuous  faulls.  result  from  the  same  cause.  His 
moral  prosings  savour  of  the  endless  gossip  over  a  dish  of 
chocolate  in  which  his  heroines  delight  ;  we  can  imagine 
the  applause  with  which  his  admiring  feminine  circle  would 
receive  his  demonstration  of  the  fact,  that  adversity  is  harder 
to  bear  than  prosperity,  or  the  sentiment  that  '  a  man  of 
principle  whose  love  is  founded  in  reason,  and  whose  object 
is  mind  rather  than  person,  must  make  a  worthy  woman 
happy.'  These  are  admirable  sentiments,  but  they  savour 
of  the  serious  tea-party.  If  'Tom  Jones'  has  about  it  an 
occasional  suspicion  of  beer  and  pipes  at  the  bar,  '  Sir  / 
Charles  Grandison  '  recalls  an  indefinite  consumption  of  tea 
and  small-talk.  In  short,  the  feminine  part  of  Richardson's 
character  has  a  little  too  much  affinity  to  Mrs.  Gamp — not 
that  he  would  ever  be  guilty  of  putting  gin  in  his  cup,  but 
that  he  would  have  the  same  capacity  for  spinning  out 
indefinite  twaddle  of  a  superior  kind.     And,  of  course,  he        ^-'-^^^ 


fell  into  the  faults  which  beset  the  members  of  mutual 
admiration  societies  in  general,  but  especially  those  which 
consist  chiefly  of  women.  Men  who  meet  for  purposes  of  \ 
mutual  flattery  become  unnaturally  solemn  and  priggish  ; 
they  never  free  themselves  from  the  suspicion  that  the  older 
members  of  the  coterie  may  be  laughing  at  them  behind 
their  backs.  But  the  flattery  of  women  is  so  much  more 
delicate,    and    so    much     more    sincere,    that    it    is    far 


62  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

more  dangerous.  It  is  a  poultice  which  in  time  softens  the 
hardest  outside.  Richardson  yielded  as  entirely  as  any 
curate  exposed  to  a  shower  of  slippers.  He  evidently 
wrote  under  the  impression  that  he  was  not  merely  an 
imaginative  writer  of  the  highest  order,  but  also  a  great 
moralist.  He  was  reforming  the  world,  putting  down  vice, 
sending  duelling  out  of  fashion,  and  inculcating  the  lessons 
of  the  pulpit  in  a  far  more  attractive  form.  A  modern 
novelist  is  half-ashamed  of  his  art  ;  he  disclaims  earnestly 
any  serious  purpose  ;  his  highest  aim  is  to  amuse  his  readers 
and  his  greatest  boast  that  he  amuses  them  by  honourable 
or  at  least  by  harmless  means.  There  are,  indeed,  novelists 
who  write  to  inculcate  High-Church  or  Low-Church  prin- 
ciples, or  to  prove  that  society  at  large  is  out  of  joint ;  but 
a  direct  intention  to  prove  that  men  ought  not  to  steal 
or  get  drunk,  or  commit  any  other  atrocities,  is  generally 
considered  to  be  beside  the  novelist's  function,  and  its  intro- 
duction to  be  a  fault  of  art.  Indeed,  there  is  much  to  be 
said  against  it.  In  our  youth  we  used  to  read  a  poem  about 
a  cruel  little  boy  who  went  out  to  fish  and  was  punished  by 
somehow  becoming  suspended  by  his  chin  from  a  hook  in 
the  larder.  It  never  produced  much  effect  upon  us,  because 
we  felt  that  the  accident  was,  to  say  the  least,  rather  excep- 
tional ;  at  most,  we  fished  on,  and  were  careful  about  the 
larder.  The  same  principle  applies  to  the  poetic  justice 
distributed  by  most  novelists.  When  Richardson  kills  off 
his  villains  by  violent  deaths,  we  know  too  well  that  many 
villains  live  to  a  good  old  age,  leave  handsome  fortunes, 
and  are  buried  under  the  handsomest  of  tombstones,  with 
the  most  elegant  of  epitaphs.  This  very  rough  device  for 
inculcating  morality  is  of  course  ineffectual,  and  produces 
some  artistic   blemishes.     The   direct  exhortations  to  his 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  63 

readers  to  be  good  are  still  more  annoying  :  no  human 
being  can  long  endure  a  mixture  of  preaching  and  story- 
telling. For  Heaven's  sake,  we  exclaim,  tell  us  what  happens 
to  Clarissa,  and  don't  stop  to  prove  that  honesty  is  the 
best  policy  !  In  a  wider  sense,  however,  the  seriousness  of 
Richardson's  purpose  is  of  high  value.  He  is  so  keenly  in 
earnest,  so  profoundly  interested  about  his  characters,  so 
determined  to  make  us  enter  into  their  motives,  that  we 
cannot  help  being  carried  away  ;  if  he  never  spares  an 
opportunity  of  giving  us  a  lecture,  at  least  his  zeal  in  setting 
forth  an  example  never  flags  for  an  instant.  The  effort  to 
give  us  an  ideally  perfect  character  seems  to  stimulate  his 
imagination,  and  leads  to  a  certain  intensity  of  realisation 
which  we  are  apt  to  miss  in  the  purposeless  school  of 
novelists.  He  is  always,  as  it  were,  writing  at  high-pressure 
and  under  a  sense  of  responsibility. 

The  method  which  he  adopts  lends  itself  very  conveni- 
ently to  heighten  this  effect.  Richardson's  feminine  delight 
in  letter-writing  was,  as  we  have  seen,  the  immediate  cause 
of  his  plunge  into  authorship.  Richardson's  novels,  indeed, 
are  not  so  much  novels  put  for  convenience  under  the  form 
of  letters,  as  letters  expanded  till  they  become  novels.  A 
genuine  novelist  who  should  put  his  work  into  the  unnatural 
shape  of  a  correspondence  would  probably  find  it  a  very 
awkward  expedient  ;  but  Richardson  gradually  worked  uj) 
to  the  novel  from  the  conception  of  a  collection  of  letters  ; 
and  his  method,  therefore,  came  spontaneously  to  him.  He 
started  from  the  plan  of  writing  letters  to  illustrate  a  certain 
point  of  morality,  and  to  make  them  more  effective  attri- 
buted them  to  a  fictitious  character.  The  result  was  the 
gigantic  tract  called  '  Pamela  ' — distinctly  the  worst  of  his 
works — of  which  it  is  enough  to  say  at  present  that  it  sue- 


64  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

ceeds  neither  in  being  moral  nor  in  amusing.  It  shows,  how- 
ever, a  truly  amazing  fertility  in  a  specially  feminine  art. 
We  have  all  suffered  from  the  propensity  of  some  female 
minds  (the  causes  of  which  we  will  not  attempt  to  analyse) 
for  pouring  forth  indefinite  floods  of  correspondence.  We 
know  the  heartless  fashion  in  which  some  ladies,  even  in 
these  days  of  penny-postage,  will  fill  a  sheet  of  note-paper 
and  proceed  to  cross  their  writing  till  the  page  becomes  a 
chequer-work  of  unintelligible  hieroglyphics.  But  we  may 
feel  gratitude  in  looking  back  to  the  days  when  time  hung 
heavier,  and  letter-\vriting  was  a  more  serious  business. 
The  letters  of  those  times  may  recall  the  fearful  and  wonder- 
ful labours  of  tapestry  in  which  ladies  employed  their 
needles  by  way  of  killing  time.  The  monuments  of  both 
kinds  are  a  fearful  indication  of  the  e?i/iui  from  which  the 
perpetrators  must  have  suffered.  We  pity  those  who  en- 
dured the  toil  as  we  pity  the  prisoners  whose  patient  inge- 
nuity has  carved  a  passage  through  a  stonewall  with  a  rusty 
nail.  Richardson's  heroines,  and  his  heroes  too,  for  that 
matter,  would  have  been  portents  at  any  time.  We  will 
take  an  example  at  hazard.  Miss  Byron,  on  March  22, 
writes  a  letter  of  fourteen  pages  (in  the  old  collective  edition). 
The  same  day  she  follows  it  up  by  two  of  six  and  of  twelve 
pages  respectively.  On  the  23rd  she  leads  off  with  a  letter 
of  eighteen  pages,  and  another  of  ten.  On  the  24th  she 
gives  us  two,  filling  together  thirty  pages,  at  the  end  of 
which  she  remarks  that  she  is  forced  to  lay  down  her  pen, 
and  then  adds  a  postscript  of  six  more  ;  on  the  25th  she 
confines  herself  to  two  pages  ;  but  after  a  Sunday's  rest  she 
makes  another  start  of  equal  vigour.  In  three  days,  there- 
fore, she  covers  ninety-six  pages.  Two  of  the  pages  are 
about  equal   to  three   in   this  volume.     Consequently,    in 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  65 

three  days'  correspondence,  referring  to  the  events  of  the 
day,  she  would  fill  something  like  a  hundred  and  forty-four 
of  these  pages— a  task  the  magnitude  of  which  may  be 
appreciated  by  anyone  who  will  try  the  experiment.  We 
should  say  that  she  must  have  written  for  nearly  eight  hours 
a  day,  and  are  not  surprised  at  her  remark,  that  she  has  on 
one  occasion  only  managed  two  hours'  sleep. 

It  ^\'bula,  of  course,  be  the  height  of  pedantry  to  dwell 
upon  this,  as  though  a  fictitious  personage  were  to  be  in  all 
respects  bounded  by  the  narrow  limits  of  human  capacity. 
It  is  not  the  object  of  a  really  good  novelist,  nor  does  it 
come  within  the  legitimate  means  of  high  art  in  any  depart- 
ment to  produce  an  actual  illusion.     Showmen  in   some 
foreign  palaces  call  upon  us  to  admire  paintings  which  we 
cannot  distinguish   from    bas-reliefs  ;  the  deception  is,  of 
course,  a  mere  trick,  and  the  paintings  are  simply  childish. 
On  the  stage  we  do  not  require  to  believe  that  the  scenery 
is  really  what  it   imitates,  and   the  attempt  to   introduce 
scraps  of  real  life  is  a  clear  proof  of  a  low  artistic  aim. 
Similarly  a  novelist  is  not  only  justified  in  writing  so  as  to 
prove  that  his  work  is  fictitious,  but  he  almost  necessarily 
hampers  himself,  to  the  prejudice  of  his  work,  if  he  imposes 
upon  himself  the  condition  that  his  book  shall  be  capable 
of  being  mistaken  for  a  genuine  narrative.     Every  good 
novelist  lets  us  into  secrets  about  the  private  thoughts  of 
his  characters  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  obtain  in 
real  life.     We  do  not,  therefore,  blame  Richardson  because 
his  characters  have  a  power  of  writing  which   no  mortal 
could  ever  attain.     His  fault,  indeed,  is  exactly  the  contrary. 
He  very  erroneously  fancies  that  he  is  bound  to  convince 
us  of  the  possibility  of  all  his  machinery,  and  often   pro- 
duces the  very  shock  to  our  belief  which  he  seeks  to  avoid. 

VOL.    I.  F 


66  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

He  is  constantly  trying  to  account  by  elaborate  devices  for 
the  ferjile  correspondence  of  his  characters,  when  it  is  per- 
fectly plain  that  they  are  simply  writing  a  novel.  We 
should  never  have  asked  a  question  as  to  the  authenticity 
of  the  letters,  if  he  did  not  force  the  question  upon  us  ; 
and  no  art  can  induce  us  for  a  moment  to  accept  the 
proffered  illusion.  For  example,  Miss  Byron  gives  us  a 
long  account  of  conversations  between  persons  whom  she 
did  not  know,  which  took  place  ten  years  before.  It  is 
much  better  that  the  impossibility  should  be  frankly 
accepted,  on  the  clear  ground  that  authors  of  novels,  and 
consequently  their  creatures,  have  the  prerogative  of  omni- 
science. At  least,  the  slightest  account  of  the  way  in  which 
she  came  by  the  knowledge  would  be  enough  to  satisfy  us 
for  all  purposes  of  fiction.  Richardson  is  not  content  with 
this,  and  elaborately  demonstrates  that  she  might  have 
known  a  number  of  minute  details  which  it  is  perfectly  plain 
that  a  real  Miss  Byron  could  never  have  known,  and  thus 
dashes  into  our  faces  an  improbabihty  which  we  should 
have  been  quite  content  to  pass  unnoticed. 

The  method,  however,  of  telling  the  story  by  the  corre- 
spondence of  the  actors  produces  more  important  effects. 
The  hundred  and  forty-four  pages  in  question  are  all  de- 
voted to  the  proceedings  of  three  days.  They  are  filled, 
for  the  most  part,  with  interminable  conversations.  The 
story  advances  by  a  very  few  steps  ;  but  we  know  all  that 
every  one  of  the  persons  concerned  has  to  say  about  the 
matter.  We  discover  what  was  Sir  Charles  Grandison's 
relation  at  a  particular  time  to  a  certain  Italian  lady,  Cle- 
mentina. We  are  told  exactly  what  view  he  took  of  his  own 
position  ;  what  view  Clementina  took  of  it ;  what  Miss 
Byron  had  to  say  to  Sir  Charles  on  the  subject,  and  what 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  67 

advice  her  relations  bestowed  upon  Miss  Byron.     Then  we 
have  all  the  sentiments  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison's  sisters, 
and  of  his  brothers-in-law  and  of  his   reverend  old  tutor  ; 
and  the  sentiments  of  all  the  Lady  Clementina's  family,  and 
the  incidental  remarks  of  a  number  of  subordinate  actors. 
In  short,  we  see  the  characters  all  round  in  all  their  relations 
to  each  other,  in  every  possible  variation  and  permutation  ; 
we  are  present  at  all  the  discussions  which  take  place  before 
every  step,  and  watch  the  gradual  variation  of  all  the  phases 
of  the  positions.     We  get  the  same  sort  of  elaborate  fami- 
liarity with  every  aspect  of  affairs  that  we  should  receive 
from  reading  a  blue-book  full  of  some  prolix  diplomatic 
correspondence;  indeed,  'Sir Charles Grandison' closely  re- 
sembles such  a  blue-book,  for  the  plot  is  carried  on  mainly 
by  elaborate  negotiations  between  three  different  families, 
with  proposals,  and  counter  proposals,  and  amended  pro- 
posals, and  a  final  settlement  of  the  very  complicated  busi- 
ness by  a  deliberate  signing  of  two  different  sets  of  articles. 
One  of  them,  we  need  hardly  say,  is  a  marriage  settlement ; 
the  other  is  a  definite  treaty  between  the  lady  who  is  not 
married  and  her  family,  the  discussion  of  which  occupies 
many  pages.     The  extent  to  which  we  are  drawn  into  the 
minutest  details  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  nearly  a 
volume  is  given  to  marrying  Sir  Charles  Grandison  to  Miss 
Byron,  after  all  difficulties  have  been  surmounted.     We  have 
at  full  length  all  the  discussions  by  which  the  day  is  fixed, 
and  all  the  remarks  of  the  unfortunate  lovers  of  both  parties, 
and  all  the  criticisms  of  both  families,  and  finally  an  ela- 
borate account  of  the  ceremony,   with  the  names  of  the 
persons  who  went  in  the  separate  coaches,  the  dresses  of  the 
bride  and  bridesmaids,  and  the  sums  which  Sir  Charles  gave 
away  to  the  village  girls  who  strewed  flowers  on  the  pathway. 

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68  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

lU  Surely  the  feminin_e_denient  in  Richardson's  character  was 

a  little  in  excess. 

The  result  of  all  this  is  a  sort  of  Dutch  painting  of  extra- 
ordinary minuteness.     The  art  reminds  us  of  the  patient 
Ijlbour  of  a  line-engraver,  who  works  for  days  at  making  out 
one  little  bit  of  minute  stippling  and  cross-hatching.     The 
characters  are  displayed  to  us  step  by  step  and  line  by  line. 
We  are  gradually  forced  into  familiarity  with  them  by  a  pro- 
cess resembling  that  by  which  we  learn  to  know  people  in 
real  life.     We  are  treated  to  few.set,analyses  or-strmmary 
descriptions,  but  by  constantly  reading  their   letters   and 
listening  to  their  talk  we  gradually  form  an  opinion  of  the 
actors.     We  see  them,  too,  all  round  ;  instead  of,  as  is  usual 
in  modern  novels,   regarding  them  steadily  from  one  point 
of  view  ;  we  know  what  each  person  thinks  of  everyone 
Y*"'""  >  '   else,  and  what  everyone  else  thinks  of  him  ;  they  are  brought 
into  a  stereoscopic  distinctness  by  combining  the  different 
^  aspects  of  their  character.     Of  course,  a  method  of  this  kind 

involves  much  labour  on  the  part  both  of  writer  and  reader. 
It  is  evident  that  Richardson  did  jiot  think  of  amusing  a 
stray  half-hour  in  a  railway-carriage  or  in  a  clubjmoking- 
room  ;  he  counted  upon  readers  who  would  apply  themselves 
"seriously  to  a  task,  in  the  hope  of  improving  their  morals  as 
much  as  of  gaining  some  harmless  amusement.  This  theory 
is  explicitly  set  forth  in  Warburton's  preface  to  '  Clarissa.' 
But  it  must  also  be  said  that,  considering  the  cumbrous 
nature  of  the  process,  the  spirit  with  which  it  is  applied  is 
wonderful.  Richardson's  own  interest  in  his  actors  never 
flags.  The  distinct  style  of  every  correspondent  is  faithfully 
preserved  with  singular  vivacity.  When  we  have  read  a  few 
letters  we  are  never  at  a  loss  to  tell,  from  the  style  alone 
of  any  short  passage,  who  is  the  imaginary  author.     Conse- 


n 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  69 

quently,  readers  who  can  bear  to  have  their  amusement 
diluted,  who  are  content  with  an  imperceptibly  slow  deve- 
lopment of  plot,  and  can  watch  without  impatience  the  ap- 
proach of  a  foreseen  incident  through  a  couple  of  volumes, 
may  find  the  prolixity  less  intolerable  than  might  be  ex- 
pected. If  they  will  be  content  to  skip  when  they  are  bored, 
even  less  patient  students  may  be  entertained  with  a  series 
of  pictures  of  character  and  manners  skilfully  contrasted 
and  brilliantly  coloured,  though  with  a  limited  allowance  of 
incident.  Within  his  own  sphere,  no  writer  exceeds  him  in 
clearness  and  delicacy  of  conception. 

In  another  way,  the  machinery  of  a  fictitious  corre- 
spondence is  rather  troublesome.  As  the  author  never 
appears  in  his  own  person,  he  is  often  obliged  to  trust  his 
characters  with  trumpeting  their  own  virtues.  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  has  to  tell  us  himself  of  his  own  virtuous  deeds  ; 
how  he  disarms  ruffians  who  attack  him  in  overwhelming 
numbers,  and  converts  evil-doers  by  impressive  advice ; 
and,  still  more  awkwardly,  he  has  to  repeat  the  amazing 
compliments  which  everybody  is  always  paying  him. 
Richardson  does  his  best  to  evade  the  necessity ;  he 
couples  all  his  virtuous  heroes  with  friendly  confidants,  who 
relieve  the  virtuous  heroes  of  the  tiresome  task  of  self- 
adulation  ;  he  supplies  the  heroes  themselves  with  elaborate 
reasons  for  overcoming  their  modesty,  and  makes  them 
apologise  profusely  for  the  unwelcome  task.  Still,  ingenious 
as  his  expedients  may  be,  and  willing  as  we  are  to  make 
allowance  for  the  necessities  of  his  task,  we  cannot  quite 
free  ourselves  from  an  unpleasant  suspicion  as  to  the 
simplicity  of  his  characters.  '  Clarissa '  is  comparatively 
free  from  this  fault,  though  Clarissa  takes  a  questionable 
pleasure  in  uttering  the  finest   sentiments  and  posing  her- 


70 


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uv"^ 


self  as  a  model  of  virtue.  But  in  '  Sir  Charles  Grandison ' 
the  fulsome  interchange  of  flattery  becomes  offensive  even 
in  fiction.  The  virtuous  characters  give  and  receive  an 
amount  of  eulogy  enough  to  turn  the  strongest  stomachs. 
How  amiable  is  A  !  says  B  ;  how  virtuous  is  C,  and  how 
marvellously  witty  is  D !  And  then  A,  C,  and  D  go 
through  the  same  performance,  adding  a  proper  compli- 
ment to  B  in  place  of  the  exclamation  appropriate  to 
themselves.  The  only  parallel  in  modern  times  is  to  be 
found  at  some  of  the  public  dinners,  where  every  man 
proposes  his  neighbour's  health  with  a  tacit  understanding 
that  he  is  himself  to  furnish  the  text  for  a  similar  oration. 
But  then  at  dinners  people  have  the  excuse  of  a  state  of 
modified  sobriety. 

This  fault  is,  as  we  have  said,  aggravated  by  the  epistolary 
method.  That  method  makes  it  necessary  that  each 
person  should  display  his  or  her  own  virtues,  as  in  an 
exhibition  of  gymnastics  the  performers  walk  round  and 
show  their  muscles.  But  the  fault  lies  a  good  deal  deeper. 
Every  writer,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  puts  himself  into 
his  novels,  and  exhibits  his  own  character  even  more 
distinctly  than  that  of  his  heroes.  And  Richardson,  the 
head  of  a  little  circle  of  conscientious  admirers  of  each 
other's  virtues,  could  not  but  reproduce  on  a  different  scale 
the  tone  of  his  own  society.  The  Grandisons,  and  the 
families  of  Miss  Byron  and  Clementina,  merely  repeat  a 
practice  with  which  he  was  tolerably  familiar  at  home  ; 
whilst  his  characters  represent  to  some  extent  the  idealised 
Richardson  himself; — and  this  leads  us  to  the  most 
essential  characteristic  of  his  novels.  The  greatest  woman 
in  France,  according  to  Napoleon's  huital  remark,  was  the 
woman  who  had  the  most  children.     In  a  different  sense, 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  71 

the  saying  may  pass  for  truth.  The  greatest  writer  is  the  i  / 
one  who  has  produced  the  largest  family  of  immortal 
children.  Those  of  whom  it  can  be  said  that  they  have 
really  added  a  new  type  to  the  fictitious  world  are  indeed 
few  in  number.  Cervantes  is  in  the  front  rank  of  all 
imaginative  creators,  because  he  has  given  birth  to  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza.  Richardson's  literary  repre- 
sentatives are  far  indeed  below  these  ;  but  Richardson  too 
may  boast  that,  in  his  narrower  sphere  of  thought,  he  has 
invented  two  characters  that  have  still  a  strong  vitality. 
They  show  all  the  weaknesses  inseparable  from  the  age  and 
country  of  their  origin.  They  are  far  inferior  to  the  highest 
ideals  of  the  great  poets  of  the  world  ;  they  are  cramped 
and  deformed  by  the  conventionalities  of  their  century 
and  the  narrow  society  in  which  they  move  and  live.  But  for 
all  that  they  stir  the  emotions  of  a  distant  generation  with 
power  enough  to  show  that  their  author  must  have  pierced 
below  the  surface  into  the  deeper  and  more  perenniaFsprings 
of  human  passion.  These  two  characters  are,  of  course, 
Clarissa  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ;  and  I  may  endeavour 
shortly  to  analyse  the  sources  of  their  enduring  interest. 

Sir  Charles  Grandison  has  passed  into  a  proverb.  When 
Carlyle  calls  Lafayette  a  Grandison-Cromwell,  he  hits  off 
one  of  those  admirable  nicknames  which  paint  a  character 
for  us  at  once.  Sir  Charles  Grandison  is  the  model  fine 
gentleman  of  the  eighteenth  century — the  master  of  correct 
deportment,  the  unimpeachable  representative  of  the  old 
school.  Richardson  tells  us  with  a  certain  naivete  that  he 
has  been  accused  of  describing  an  impossible  character  ; 
that  Sir  Charles  is  a  man  absolutely  without  a  fault,  or  at 
least  with  faults  visible  only  on  a  most  microscopic  observa- 
tion.    In  fact,  the  only  fault  to  which  Sir  Charles  himself 


-e  '1  <. 


72  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

pleads  guilty,  in  seven  volumes,  is  that  he  once  rather  loses 
his  temper.  Two  ruffians  try  to  bully  him  in  his  own 
house,  and  even  draw  their  swords  upon  him.  Sir  Charles 
so  far  forgets  himself  as  to  draw  his  own  sword,  disarm  both 
of  his  opponents  and  turn  them  out  of  doors.  He  cannot 
forgive  himself,  he  says,  that  he  has  been  '  provoked  by  two 
such  men  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  his  own  house.'  His 
only  excuse  is,  '  that  there  were  two  of  them  ;  and  that  tho' 
I  drew,  yet  I  had  the  command  of  myself  so  far  as  only  to 
defend  myself,  when  I  might  have  done  with  them  what  I 
pleased.'  According  to  Richardson,  this  venial  offence  is 
the  worst  blot  on  Sir  Charles's  character.  We  certainly 
do  not  blame  him  for  the  attempt  to  draw  an  ideally  perfect 
hero.  It  is  a  perfectly  legitimate  aim  in  fiction,  and  the 
only  question  can  be  whether  he  has  succeeded  :  for 
Richardson's  own  commendation  cannot  be  taken  as  quite 
sufficient,  neither  can  we  quite  accept  the  ingenious  artifice 
by  which  all  the  secondary  characters  perform  as  decoy- 
birds  to  attract  our  admiration.  They  do  their  very  best  to 
induce  us  to  join  in  their  hymns  of  praise.  '  Grandison,' 
says  a  Roman  Catholic  bishop,  '  were  he  one  of  us,  might 
expect  canonisation.'  *  How,'  exclaims  his  uncle,  after  a 
conversation  with  his  paragon  of  a  nephew,  'how  shall  I 
bear  my  own  littleness  ? '  A  party  of  reprobates  about 
town  have  a  long  dispute  with  him,  endeavouring  to  force 
him  into  a  duel.  At  the  end  of  it  one  of  them  exclaims 
admiringly,  '  Curse  me,  if  I  believe  there  is  such  another 
man  in  the  world  ! '  'I  never  saw  a  hero  till  now,'  says 
another.  '  I  had  rather  have  Sir  C.  Grandison  for  my 
friend  than  the  greatest  prince  on  earth,'  says  a  third.  '  I 
had  rather,'  replies  his  friend,  '  be  Sir  C.  Grandison  for  this 
one  past  hour  than  the  Great  Mogul  all  my  life.'     And  the 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  73 

general  conclusion  is,  'What  poor  toads  are  we!'  'This 
man  shows  us,'  as  a  lady  declares,  '  that  goodness  and 
greatness  are  synonymous  words ' ;  and  when  his  sister 
marries,  she  complains  that  her  brother  '  has  long  made  all 
other  men  indifferent  to  her.  Such  an  infinite  difference  ! ' 
In  the  evening,  according  to  custom,  she  dances  a  minuet 
with  her  bridegroom,  but  whispers  a  friend  that  she  would 
have  performed  better  had  she  danced  with  her  brother. 

The  structure,  however,  of  the  story  itself  is  the  best 
illustration  of  Sir  Charles's  admirable  qualities.  The  plot  is 
very  simple.  He  rescues  Miss  Byron  from  an  attempt  at  a 
forcible  abduction.  Miss  Byron,  according  to  her  friends, 
is  the  queen  of  her  sex,  and  is  amongst  women  what  Sir 
Charles  is  amongst  men.  Of  course,  they  straightway  fall 
in  love.  Sir  Charles,  however,  shows  symptoms  of  a  singular 
reserve,  which  is  at  last  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  is 
already  half-engaged  to  a  noble  Italian  lady,  Clementina. 
He  has  promised,  in  fact,  to  marry  her  if  certain  objections 
on  the  score  of  his  country  and  religion  can  be  surmounted. 
The  interest  lies  chiefly  in  the  varying  inclinations  of  the 
balance,  at  one  moment  favourable  to  Miss  Byron,  and  at 
another  to  the  '  saint  and  angel '  Clementina.  When  Miss 
Byron  thinks  that  Sir  Charles  will  be  bound  in  honour  to 
marry  Clementina,  she  begins  to  pine  ;  '  she  visibly  falls 
away ;  and  her  fine  complexion  fades  ' ;  her  friends  *  watch 
in  silent  love  every  turn  of  her  mild  and  patient  eye,  every 
change  of  her  charming  countenance  ;  for  they  know  too 
well  to  what  to  impute  the  malady  which  has  approached 
the  best  of  hearts ;  they  know  that  the  cure  cannot  be 
within  the  art  of  the  physician.'  When  Clementina  fears 
that  the  scruples  of  her  relatives  will  separate  her  from  Sir 
Charles,  she  takes  the  still  more  decided  step  of  going  mad  ; 


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and  some  of  her  madness  would  be  very  touching,  if  it  were 
not  a  trifle  too  much  after  the  conventional  pattern  of  the 
mad  women  in  Sheridan's  '  Critic'  Whilst  these  two  ladies 
are  breaking  their  hearts  about  Sir  Charles  they  do  justice 
to  each  other's  merits.  Harriet  will  never  be  happy  unless 
she  knows  that  the  admirable  Clementina  has  reconciled 
herself  to  the  loss  of  her  adored  ;  when  Clementina  finds 
herself  finally  separated  from  her  lover,  she  sincerely 
implores  Sir  Charles  to  marry  her  more  fortunate  rival. 
Never  was  there  such  a  display  of  fine  feeling  and  utter 
absence  of  jealousy.  Meanwhile  a  lovely  ward  of  Sir 
Charles  finds  it  necessary  to  her  peace  of  mind  to  be  sepa- 
rated from  her  guardian  ;  and  another  beautiful,  but  rather 
less  admirable,  Italian  actually  follows  him  to  England  to 
persuade  him  to  accept  her  hand.  Four  ladies — all  of  them 
patterns  of  physical,  moral,  and  intellectual  excellence — are 
breaking  their  hearts  ;  and  though  they  are  so  excellent 
that  they  overcome  their  natural  jealousy,  they  can  scarcely 
look  upon  any  other  man  after  having  known  this  niodel  of 
all  his  sex.  Indeed,  every  woman  who  approaches  him  falls 
desperately  in  love  with  him,  unless  she  is  his  sister  or  old 
enough  to  be  his  grandmother.  The  plot  of  the  novel 
depends  upon  an  attraction  for  the  fair  sex  which  is 
apparently  irresistible  ;  and  the  men,  if  they  are  virtuous, 
rejoice  to  sit  admiringly  at  his  feet,  and,  if  they  are  vicious, 
retire  abashed  from  his  presence,  to  entreat  his  good  advice 
when  they  are  upon  their  deathbeds. 

All  this  is  easy  enough.  A  novelist  can  make  his 
women  fall  in  love  with  his  hero  as  easily  as,  with  a  stroke 
of  the  pen,  he  can  endow  him  with  fifty  thousand  a  year,  or 
bestow  upon  him  every  virtue  under  heaven.  Neither  has 
he  any  difficulty  in  making  him  the  finest  dancer  in  England, 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  75 

or  giving  him  such  marvellous  skill  with  the  small-sword 
that  he  can  avoid  the  sin  of  duelling  by  instantaneously  dis- 
arming his  most  formidable  opponents.  The  real  question 
is,  whether  he  can  animate  this  conglomerate  of  all  conceiv- 
able virtues  with  a  real  human  soul,  set  him  before  us  as  a 
living  and  breathing  reality,  and  make  us  feel  that,  if  we  had 
known  him,  we  too  should  have  been  ready  to  swell  the 
full  chorus  of  admiration.  It  is  rather  more  difficult  to 
convey  the  impression  which  a  perusal  of  his  correspondence 
and  conversation  leaves  upon  an  unprejudiced  mind.  Does 
Sir  Charles,  when  we  come  to  know  him  intimately — for, 
with  the  ample  materials  provided,  we  really  seem  to  know 
him — fairly  support  the  amazing  burden  thrown  upon  him  ? 
Do  we  feel  a  certain  disappointment  when  we  meet  the  man 
whom  all  ladies  love,  and  in  whom  every  gentleman  con- 
fesses a  superior  nature  ? 

Two  anecdotes  about  Sir  Charles  may  suggest  the  answer, 
Voltaire,  we  know,  ridiculed  the  proud  English,  who  with 
the  same  scissors  cut  off  the  heads  of  their  kings  and  the 
tails  of  their  horses.  To  this  last  weakness  Sir  Charles  was 
superior.  His  horses,  says  Miss  Byron,  '  are  not  docked  ; 
their  tails  are  only  tied  up  when  they  are  on  the  road.'  She 
would  wish  to  find  some  fault  with  him,  but  as  she  forcibly 
says,  '  if  he  be  of  opinion  that  the  tails  of  these  noble 
animals  are  not  only  a  natural  ornament,  but  of  real  use  to 
defend  them  from  the  vexatious  insects  that  in  summer 
are  so  apt  to  annoy  them,  how  far  from  a  dispraise  is  this 
humane  consideration  ! '  The  other  anecdote  is  of  a 
different  kind.  When  Sir  Charles  goes  to  church  he  does 
not,  like  some  other  gentlemen,  bow  low  to  the  ladies  of 
his  acquaintance,  and  then  to  others  of  the  gentry.  No  ! 
'  Sir  Charles  had  first  other  devoirs  to  pay.     He  paid  us  his 


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second  compliments.'  From  these  two  exemplary  actions 
we  must  infer  his  whole  character.  It  should  have  been 
inscribed  on  his  tombstone,  '  He  would  not  dock  his 
horses'  tails.'  That  is,  the  most  trifling  details  of  his 
conduct  are  regulated  on  the  most  serious  considerations. 
He  is  one  of  those  solemn  beings  who  can't  shave  themselves 
without  implicitly  asserting  a  great  moral  principle.  He 
finds  sermons  in  his  horses'  tails  ;  he  could  give  an  excel- 
lent reason  for  the  quantity  of  lace  on  his  coat,  which  was 
due,  it  seems,  to  a  sentiment  of  filial  reverence  ;  and  he 
could  not  fix  his  hour  for  dinner  without  an  eye  to  the 
reformation  of  society.  In  short,  he  was  a  prig  of  the  first 
water ;  self-conscious  to  the  last  degree ;  and  so  crammed 
with  little  moral  aphorisms  that  they  drop  out  of  his  mouth 
whenever  he  opens  his  lips.  And  then  his  religion  is  in 
admirable  keeping.  It  is  intimately  connected  with  the 
excellence  of  his  deportment ;  and  is,  in  fact,  merely  the 
application  of  the  laws  of  good  society  to  the  loftiest  sphere 
of  human  duty.  He  pays  his  second  compliments  to  his 
lady,  and  his  first  to  the  object  of  his  adoration.  He  very 
properly  gives  the  precedence  to  the  being  he  professes  to 
adore.  As  he  carries  his  solemnity  into  the  pettiest  trifles 
of  life,  so  he  considers  religious  duties  to  be  simply  the 
most  important  part  of  social  etiquette.  He  would  shrink 
from  blasphemy  even  more  than  from  keeping  on  his  hat  in 
the  presence  of  ladies  ;  but  the  respect  which  he  owes  in 
one  case  is  of  the  same  order  with  that  due  in  the  other  :  it 
is  only  a  degree  more  important. 

We  feel,  indeed,  a  certain  affection  for  Sir  Charles 
Grandison.  He  is  pompous  and  ceremonious  to  an  insuffer- 
able degree  ;  but  there  is  really  some  truth  in  his  sister's 
assertion,  that  his  is  the  most  delicate  of  human  minds  ; 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  77 

through   the   cumbrous    formalities    of    his   century    there 
shines    a  certain  quickness  and  sensibiUty  ;   he  even  con- 
descends to  be  hvely  after  a  stately  fashion,  and  to  indulge 
in  a  little  'raillying,'  only  guarding  himself  rather  too  care- 
fully against  unbecoming  levity.     Indeed,  though  a  man  of 
the  world  at  the  present  day  would  be  as  much  astonished 
at  his  elaborate  manners  as  at  his  laced  coat  and  sword,  he 
would  admit  that  Sir  Charles  was  by  no  means  wanting  in 
tact  ;    his    talk    is   weighted  with  more  elaborate  formulas 
than  we  care  to  employ,  but  it  is  good  vigorous  conversa- 
tion in  the  main,  and,  if  rather  overlaid  with  sermonising, 
can  at  times  be  really  amusing.     His  religion  is  not  of  a 
very  exalted  character  ;    he  rises  to  no  sublime  heights  of 
emotion,  and  would  simply  be  puzzled  by  the  fervours  or 
the  doubts  of   a  more  modern    generation.     In    short,    it 
seems  to  be  compounded  of  common-sense  and  a  regard 
for  decorum — and  those  are  not  bad  things  in  their  way, 
though  not  the  highest.    He  is  not  a  very  ardent  reformer  ; 
he  doubts  whether  the  poor  should  be  taught  to  read,  and 
is  very  clear  that  everyone  should  be  made  to   know   his 
station  ;  but  still  he  talks  with  sense  and  moderation,  and 
even  gets  so  far  as  to  suggest  the  necessity  of  reformatories. 
He  is  not  very  romantic,  and  displays  an  amount  of  self- 
command    in    judicially  settling  the  claims  of  the  various 
ladies  who  are  anxious  to  marry  him,  which  is  almost  comic  j 
he  is  perfectly  ready  to  marry  the  Italian  lady,  if  she  can 
surmount  her  religious  scruples,  though  he  is  in  love  with 
Miss  Byron  ;   and  his  mind  is  evidently  in  a  pleasing  state 
of  equilibrium,  so  that  he  will  be  happy   with  either  dear 
charmer.      Indeed,  for  so  chivalric  a  gentleman,  his  view  of 
love  and  marriage  is  far  less  enthusiastic  than  we  should 
now  require.     One  of  his  benevolent  actions,  which  throws 


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all  his  admirers  into  fits  of  eulogy,  is  to  provide  one  of 
his  uncles  with  a  wife.  The  gentleman  is  a  peer,  but  has 
hitherto  been  of  disreputable  life.  The  lady,  though  of 
good  family  and  education,  is  above  thirty,  and  her  family 
have  lost  their  estate.  The  match  of  convenience  which 
Sir  Charles  patches  up  between  them  has  obvious  pruden- 
tial recommendations  ;  and  of  course  it  turns  out  admirably. 
But  one  is  rather  puzzled  to  know  what  special  merit  Sir 
Charles  can  claim  for  bringing  it  to  pass. 

Such  a  hero  as  this  may  be  worthy  and  respectable,  but 
is  not  a  very  exalted  ideal.  Neither  do  his  circumstances 
increase  our  interest.  It  would  be  rather  a  curious  subject 
of  inquiry  why  it  should  be  so  impossible  to  make  a  virtuous 
hero  interesting  in  fiction.  In  real  life,  the  men  who  do 
heroic  actions  are  certainly  more  attractive  than  the  villains. 
Domestic  affection,  patriotism,  piety,  and  other  good 
qualities  are  pleasant  to  contemplate  in  the  world ;  why 
should  they  be  so  often  an  unspeakable  bore  in  novels  ? 
Principally,  no  doubt,  because  our  conception  of  a  perfect 
man  is  apt  to  bring  the  negative  qualities  into  too  great 
prominence  ;  we  are  asked  to  admire  men  because  they 
have  not  passions — not  because  they  overcome  them.  But 
there  are  further  difficulties  ;  for  example,  in  a  novel  it 
is  generally  so  easy  to  see  what  is  wrong  and  what  is 
right — the  right-hand  path  branches  off  so  decidedly  from 
the  left,  that  we  give  a  man  little  credit  for  making  the 
proper  choice.  Still  more  is  it  difficult  to  let  us  sufficiently 
into  a  man's  interior  to  let  us  see  the  struggle  and  the  self- 
sacrifice  which  ought  to  stir  our  sympathies.  We  witness 
the  victories,  but  it  is  hard  to  make  us  feel  the  cost  at  which 
they  are  won.  Now,  Richardson  has,  as  we  shall  directly 
remark,  overcome  this  difficulty  to  a  great  extent  in  '  Clarissa ' ; 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  79 

but  in  '  Sir  Charles  Grandison '  he  has  entirely  shirked  it ;  he 
has  made  everything  too  plain  and  easy  for  his  hero.     *  I 
think  I  could  be  a  good  woman,'  says  Becky  Sharp,    '  if  I 
had  five  thousand  a  year,'^ — and  the  history  of  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  might  have  suggested  the  remark.    To  be  young, 
handsome,  healthy,  active,  with  a  fine  estate  and  a  grand 
old  house  ;  to  be  able,  by  your  eloquence,  to  send  a  sinner 
into  a  fit  (as  Sir  Charles  did  once) ;  to  be  the  object  of  a 
devoted  passion  from  three  or  four  amiable,  accomplished, 
and  beautiful  women — each  of  whom  has  a  fine  fortune, 
and  only  begs  you  to  throw  your  handkerchief  towards  her, 
whilst  she  promises  to  bear  no  grudge  if  you  throw  it  to  her 
neighbour— all  these  are  favourable  conditions  for  virtue — 
especially   if  you    mean  the   virtues   of  being  hospitable, 
generous,  a  good  landlord  and  husband,  and  in  every  walk 
of  life  thoroughly  gentlemanlike  in  your  behaviour.     But 
the  whole  design  is  rather  too  much  in  accordance  with  the 
device  in  enabling  Sir  Charles  to  avoid  duels  by  having  a 
marvellous  trick  of  disarming  his  adversaries.     '  What  on 
earth  is  the  use  of  my  fighting  with  you,'  says  King  Padella 
to  Prince  Giglio,  '  if  you  have  got  a  fairy  sword  and  a  fairy 
horse  ? '     And  what  merit  is  there  in  winning  the  battle  of 
life,    when   you    have    every   single   circumstance   in    your 
favour  ?     We  are  more  attracted  by  Fielding's  rather  ques- 
tionable hero.   Captain  Booth,  though  he  does  get  into  a 
sponging-house  and  is  anything  but  a  strict  moralist,  than 
by  this  prosperous  young  Sir  Charles,   rich  with  every  gift 
the  gods  can  give  him,  and  of  whom  the  most  we  can  say  is 
that  the  possession  of  all  those  gifts,  if  it  has  made  him 
rather   pompous   and   self-conscious,    has   not   made    him 
close-fisted  or  hard-hearted.     Sir  Charles,  then,  represents- 
a  rather  carnal  ideal ;  he  suggests  to  us  those  well-fed,  almost 


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beefy  and  corpulent  angels,  whom  the  contemporary  school 
of  painters  sometimes  portray.  No  doubt  they  are  angels, 
for  they  have  wings  and  are  seated  in  the  clouds  ;  but  there 
is  nothing  ethereal  in  their  whole  nature.  We  have  no  love 
for  asceticism  ;  but  a  few  hours  on  the  column  of  St.  Simon 
Stylites,  or  a  temporary  diet  of  locusts  and  wild  honey, 
might  have  purified  Sir  Charles's  exuberant  self-satisfaction. 
For  all  this,  he  is  not  without  a  certain  solid  merit,  and  the 
persons  by  whom  he  is  surrounded — on  whom  we  have  not 
space  to  dwell — have  a  large  share  of  the  vivacity  which 
amuses  us  in  the  real  men  and  women  of  their  time.  Their 
talk  may  not  be  equal  to  that  in  Boswell's  '  Johnson  '  ;  but 
it  is  animated  and  amusing,  and  they  compose  a  gallery  of 
portraits  which  would  look  well  in  a  solid  red-brick  mansion 
of  the  Georgian  era. 

We  must,  however,  leave  Sir  Charles,  to  say  a  few 
words  upon  that  which  is  Richardson's  real  master- 
piece, and  which,  in  spite  of  a  full  share  of  the  defects  ap- 
parent in  '  Grandison,'  will  always  command  the  admiration 
of  persons  who  have  courage  enough  to  get  through  eight 
volumes  of  correspondence.  The  characters  of  the  little 
world  in  which  the  reader  will  pass  his  time  are  in  some 
cases  the  same  who  reappear  in  '  Grandison.'  The  lively 
Lady  G.  in  the  last  is  merely  a  new  version  of  Miss  Howe 
in  the  former.  Clarissa  herself  is  Miss  Byron  under  altered 
circumstances,  and  receives  from  her  friends  the  same 
shower  of  superlatives,  whenever  they  have  occasion  to 
touch  upon  her  merits.  Richardson's  ideal  lady  is  not  at 
first  sight  more  prepossessing  than  his  gentleman.  After 
Clarissa's  death,  her  friend  Miss  Howe  writes  a  glowing 
panegyric  on  her  character.  It  will  be  enough  to  give  the 
distribution  of  her  time.     To  rest,  it  seems,  she  allotted  six 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  8i 

hours  only.  Her  first  three  morning  hours  were  devoted  to 
study  and  to  writing  those  terribly  voluminous  letters  which, 
as  one  would  have  thought,  must  have  consumed  a  still 
longer  period.  Two  hours  more  were  given  to  domestic 
management  ;  for,  as  Miss  Howe  explains,  '  she  was  a  perfect 
mistress  of  the  four  principal  rules  of  arithmetic'  Five 
hours  were  spent  in  music,  drawing,  and  needlework,  this 
last  especially,  and  in  conversation  with  the  venerable 
parson  of  the  parish.  Two  hours  she  devoted  to  breakfast 
and  dinner  ;  and  as  it  was  hard  to  restrict  herself  to  this 
allowance,  she  occasionally  gave  one  hour  more  to  dinner- 
time conversation.  One  hour  more  was  spent  in  visiting 
the  neighbouring  poor,  and  the  remaining  four  hours  to 
supper  and  conversation.  These  periods,  it  seems,  were  not 
fixed  for  every  day  ;  for  she  kept  a  kind  of  running  account, 
and  permitted  herself  to  have  an  occasional  holiday  by 
drawing  upon  the  reserved  fund  of  the  four  hours  for  supper. 
Setting  aside  the  fearfully  systematic  nature  of  this 
arrangement — the  stern  determination  to  live  by  rule  and 
system — it  must  be  admitted  that  Miss  Harlowe  was  what 
in  outworn  phrase  was  called  a  very  'superior'  person. 
She  would  have  made  an  excellent  housekeeper,  or  even  a 
respectable  governess.  We  feel  a  certain  gratitude  to  her 
for  devoting  four  hours  to  supper  ;  and,  indeed,  Richard- 
son's characters  are  always  well  cared  for  in  the  victualling 
department.  They  always  take  their  solid  three  meals, 
with  a  liberal  intercalation  of  dishes  of  tea  and  chocolate. 
Miss  Harlowe,  we  must  add,  knew  Latin,  although  her 
quotations  of  classical  authors  are  generally  taken  from 
translations.  Her  successor,  Miss  Byron,  was  not  allowed 
this  accomplishment,  Richardson's  doubts  of  its  suitability 
to  ladies  having  apparently  gathered  strength  in  the  interval. 

VOL.  I.  G 


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Notwithstanding    this   one   audacious   excursion    into   the 
regions  ofmanly  knowledge,  Miss  Harlowe  appears  to  us 
as,  in  the  main,  a  healthy,  sensible  country  girl,  with  sound 
sense,  the  highest  respect  for  decorum,  and  an  exaggerated 
regard  for  constituted,  especially  paternal,  authority.      We 
cannot  expect,  from  her,  any  of  the  outbreaks  against  the 
laws  of  society  customary  with  George  Sand's  heroines.     If 
she  had  changed  places  with  Maggie  TuUiver,  she  would 
have  accepted  the  society  of  the  '  Mill  on  the  Floss  '  with 
perfect  contentment,  respected  all  the  family  of  aunts  and 
uncles,  and  never  repined  against  the  tyranny  of  her  brother 
Tom.     She  would  have  been  conscious  of  no  vague  imagi- 
native   yearnings,    nor    have    beaten    herself    against   the 
narrow  bars  of  stolid  custom.     She  would  have  laid  up  a 
vast  store  of  linen,  and  walked  thankfully  in  the  path  chalked 
out  for  her.     Certainly  she  would  never  have  run  away  with 
Mr.    Stephen    Guest   without   tyranny   of  a   much    more 
tangible  kind  than  that  which  acts  only  through  the  finer 
spiritual  tissues.     When  Clarissa  went  off  with  Lovelace,  it 
was   not   because   she   had  unsatisfied   aspirations  after  a 
higher  order  of  life,  but  because  she  had  been  locked  up  in 
her  room,  as  a  solitary  prisoner,  and  her  family  had  tried  to 
force  her  into  marriage  with  a  man  whom  she  had  excellent 
reasons  for  hating  and  despising.     The  worst  point  about 
Clarissa   is   one   which   was   keenly   noticed   by  Johnson. 
There  is  always  something,  he  said,  which  she  prefers  to 
truth.     She  is  a  little  too  anxious  to  keep  up  appearances, 
and  we  desire  to  see  more  of  the  natural  woman. 

Yet  the  long  tragedy  in  which  Clarissa  is  the  victim  is 
not  the  less  affecting  because  the  torments  are  of  an  in- 
telligible kind,  and  require  no  highly-strung  sensibiUty  to 
give  them  keenness.     The  heroine  is  first  bullied  and  then 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  83 

deserted  by  her  family,  cut  off  from  the  friends  who  have 
a   desire   to  help    her,  and  handed  over   to  the  power  of 
an  unscrupulous  libertine.     When  she    dies    of  a   broken 
heart,  the  most  callous  and  prosaic  of  readers  must  feel  that 
it  is  the  only  release  possible  for  her.     And  in  the  gradual 
development  of  his  plot,  the  slow  accumulation  of  horrors 
upon  the  head  of  a  virtuous  victim,  Richardson  shows  the 
power  which  places  him  in  the  front  rank  of  novelists,  and 
finds  precisely  the  field  in  which  his  method  is  most  effective 
and  its  drawbacks  least  annoying.      In  the  first  place,  in 
spite  of  his  enormous  prolixity,  the  interest  is  throughout 
concentrated  upon  one  figure.     In  '  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ' 
there   are  episodes  meant  to  illustrate   the   virtues  of  the 
'  next-to-divine  man '  which  have  nothing    to  do  with  the 
main  narrative.     In  '  Clarissa  '  every  subordinate  plot — and 
they  abound — bears  immediately  upon  the  central  action  of 
the  story,  and  produces  a  constant  alternation  of  hope  and 
foreboding.     The  last  volumes,  indeed,  are  dragged  out  in 
a  way  which  is  injurious  in  several  respects.    Clarissa,  to  use 
Charles    II. 's  expression   about    himself,    takes   an  uncon- 
scionable time  about  dying.     But  until  the  climax  is  reached, 
we    see   the   clouds    steadily  gathering,    and   yet   with   an 
increasing   hope    that   they  may  be  suddenly  cleared   up. 
The  only  English  novel  which  produces  a  similar  effect,  and 
impresses  us  with  the  sense  of  an  inexorable  fate,  slowly  but 
steadily  approaching,  is    the  '  Bride  of  Lammermoor ' — in 
some  respects  the  best  and  most  artistic  of  Scott's  novels. 
Superior  as  is  Scott's  art  in  certain  directions,  we  scarcely 
feel  the  same  interest  in  his  chief  characters,  though  there  is 
the  same  unity  of  construction.      We   cannot  feel  for  the 
Master  of  Ravenswood  the  sympathy  which  Clarissa  extorts. 
For  in   Clarissa's   profound   distress   we   lose  sight  of  the 

G  2 


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narrow  round  of  respectabilities  in  which  her  earher  Hfe  is 
passed  ;  the  petty  pompousness,  the  intense  propriety  which 
annoy  us  in  '  Sir  Charles  Grandison '  disappear  or  become 
pathetic.  When  people  are  dying  of  broken  hearts  we 
forget  their  Httle  absurdities  of  costume.  A  more  powerful 
note  is  sounded,  and  the  little  superficial  absurdities  are 
forgotten.  We  laugh  at  the  first  feminine  description  of 
her  dress — a  Brussels-lace  cap,  with  sky-blue  ribbon,  pale 
crimson-coloured  paduasoy,  with  cuffs  embroidered  in  a 
running  pattern  of  violets  and  their  leaves  ;  but  we  are 
more  disposed  to  cry  (if  many  novels  have  not  exhausted 
all  our  powers  of  weeping)  when  we  come  to  the  final  scene. 
'  One  faded  cheek  rested  upon  the  good  woman's  bosom, 
the  kindly  warmth  of  which  had  overspread  it  with  a  faint 
but  charming  flush  \  the  other  paler  and  hollow,  as  if 
already  iced  over  by  death.  Her  hands,  white  as  the  lily, 
with  her  meandering  veins  more  transparently  blue  than 
ever  I  had  seen  even  hers,  hanging  lifelessly,  one  before 
her,  the  other  grasped  by  the  right  hand  of  the  kindly  widow, 
whose  tears  bedewed  the  sweet  face  which  her  motherly 
bosom  supported,  though  unfelt  by  the  fair  sleeper  ;  and 
either  insensibly  to  the  good  woman,  or  what  she  would  not 
disturb  her  to  wipe  off  or  to  change  her  posture.  Her 
aspect  was  sweetly  calm  and  serene  ;  and  though  she  started 
now  and  then,  yet  her  sleep  seemed  easy  ;  her  breath 
indeed  short  and  quick,  but  tolerably  free,  and  not  like  that 
of  a  dying  person.'  Allowing  for  the  queer  grammar,  this 
is  surely  a  touching  and  simple  picture.  The  epistolary 
method,  though  it  has  its  dangers,  lends  itself  well  to 
heighten  our  interest.  Where  the  object  is  rather  to  appeal 
to  our  sympathies  than  to  give  elaborate  analyses  of 
character,  or  complicated  narratives  of  incident,  it  is  as  well 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  85 

to  let  the  persons  speak  for  themselves.  A  hero  cannot 
conveniently  say,  like  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  'See  how 
virtuous  and  brave  and  modest  I  am  ; '  nor  is  it  easy  to 
make  a  story  clear  when  it  has  to  be  broken  up  and 
distributed  amongst  people  speaking  from  different  points 
of  view  ;  it  is  hard  to  make  the  testimonies  of  the  different 
witnesses  fit  into  each  other  neatly.  But  a  cry  of  agony  can 
come  from  no  other  quarter  so  effectively  as  from  the 
sufferer's  own  mouth.  'Clarissa  Harlowc'  is  in  fact  one 
long  lamentation,  passing  gradually  from  a  tone  of  indignant 
complaint  to  one  of  despair,  and  rising  at  the  end  to 
Christian  resignation.  So  prolonged  a  performance  in  every 
key  of  human  misery  is  indeed  painful  from  its  monotony  ; 
and  we  may  admit  that  a  limited  selection  from  the  corres- 
pondence, passing  through  more  rapid  gradations,  would  be 
more  effective.  We  might  be  spared  some  of  the  elaborate 
speculations  upon  various  phases  of  the  affair  which  pass 
away  without  any  permanent  effect.  Richardson  seems  to 
be  scarcely  content  even  with  drawing  his  characters  as  large 
as  life ;  he  wishes  to  apply  a  magnifying-glass.  Yet,  even 
in  this  incessant  repetition  there  is  a  certain  element  of 
power.  We  are  forced  to  drain  every  drop  in  the  cup,  and 
to  appreciate  every  ingredient  which  adds  bitterness  to  its 
flavour.  We  are  annoyed  and  wearied  at  times  ;  but  as  we 
read  we  not  only  wonder  at  the  number  of  variations 
performed  upon  one  tune,  but  feel  that  he  has  succeeded 
in  thoroughly  forcing  upon  our  minds,  by  incessant 
hammering,  the  impression  which  he  desires  to  produce. 
If  the  blows  are  not  all  very  powerful,  each  blow  tells. 
There  is  something  impressive  in  the  intensity  of  purpose 
which  keeps  one  end  in  view  through  so  elaborate  a  process, 
and  the  skill  which  forms  such  a  multitudinous  variety  of 


86  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

parts  into  one  artistic  whole.  The  proportions  of  this 
gigantic  growth  are  preserved  with  a  skill  which  would  be 
singular  even  in  the  normal  scale  ;  a  respect  in  which  most 
giants,  whether  human  or  literary,  are  apt  to  break  down. 

To  make  the  story  complete,  the  plot  should  have  been 
as  effectively  conceived  as  Clarissa  herself,  and  the  other 
characters  should  be  equally  worthy  of  their  position. 
Here  there  are  certain  drawbacks.  The  plot,  it  might  easily 
be  shown,  is  utterly  incredible.  Richardson  has  the  great- 
est difficulty  in  preventing  his  heroine  from  escaping,  and 
at  times  we  must  not  look  too  closely  for  fear  of  detecting 
the  flimsy  nature  of  her  imaginary  chains.  There  is,  indeed, 
no  reason  for  looking  closely  ;  so  long  as  the  situations 
bring  out  the  desired  sentiment,  we  may  accept  them  for 
the  nonce,  without  asking  whether  they  could  possibly  have 
occurred.  It  is  of  more  importance  to  judge  of  the  con- 
sistency of  the  chief  agent  in  the  persecution.  Lovelace  is 
by  far  the  most  ambitious  character  that  Richardson  has 
attempted.  To  heap  together  a  mass  of  virtues,  and  christen 
the  result  Clarissa  Harlowe  or  Charles  Grandison,  is  com- 
paratively easy  ;  but  it  is  a  harder  task  to  compose  a  villain, 
who  shall  be  by  nature  a  devil,  and  yet  capable  of  imposing 
upon  an  angel.  Some  of  Richardson's  judicious  critics 
declared  that  he  must  have  been  himself  a  man  of  vicious 
life  or  he  could  never  have  described  a  libertine  so  vividly. 
This  is  one  of  the  smart  sayings  which  are  obviously  the 
proper  thing  to  say,  but  which,  notwithstanding,  are  little 
better  than  silly.  Lovelace  is  evidently  a  fancy  character 
— if  we  may  use  the  expression.  He  bears  not  a  single 
mark  of  being  painted  from  life,  and  is  formed  by  the  simple 
process  of  putting  together  the  most  brilliant  qualities 
which  his  creator  could  devise  to  meet  the  occasion.     We 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  87 

do  not  say  that  the  result  is  psychologically  impossible  ;  for 
it  would  be  very  rash  to  dogmatise  on  any  such  question. 
No  one  can  say  what  strange  amalgams  of  virtue  and  vice 
may  have  sufficient  stability  to  hold  together  during  a 
journey  through  this  world.  But  it  is  plain  that  Lovelace 
is  not  a  result  of  observation,  but  an  almost  fantastic  mix- 
ture of  qualities  intended  to  fit  him  for  the  difficult  part 
he  has  to  play.  To  exalt  Clarissa,  for  example,  Lovelace's 
family  are  represented  as  all  along  earnestly  desirous  of  a 
marriage  between  them  ;  and  Lovelace  has  every  conceivable 
motive,  including  the  desire  to  avoid  hanging,  for  agreeing 
to  the  match.  His  refusal  is  unintelligible,  and  Richardson 
has  to  supply  him  with  a  reason  so  absurd  and  so  diabolical 
that  we  cannot  beheve  in  it  ;  it  reminds  us  of  Hamlet's 
objecting  to  killing  his  uncle  whilst  at  prayers,  on  the 
ground  that  it  would  be  sending  him  straight  to  heaven. 
But  we  may,  if  we  please,  consider  Hamlet's  conceit  as  a 
mere  pretext  invented  to  excuse  his  irresolution  to  himself ; 
whereas  Lovelace  speculates  so  long  and  so  seriously  upon 
the  marriage,  that  we  are  bound  to  consider  his  far-fetched 
arguments  as  sincere.  And  the  supposition  makes  his 
wickedness  gratuitous,  if  we  beheve  in  his  sanity.  Lovelace 
suffers,  again,  from  the  same  necessity  which  injures  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  ;  as  the  virtuous  hero  has  to  be  always 
expatiating  on  his  own  virtues,  the  vicious  hero  has  to  boast 
of  his  own  vices ;  it  is  true  that  this  is,  in  an  artistic  sense, 
the  least  repulsive  habit  of  the  two;  for  it  gives  reason  for 
hating  not  a  hero  but  a  villain  ;  unluckily  it  is  also  a  reason  for 
refusing  to  believe  in  his  existence.  The  improbabihty  of 
a  thoroughpaced  scoundrel  writing  daily  elaborate  confes- 
sions of  his  criminality  to  a  friend,  even  when  the  friend 
condemns  him,  expatiating  upon  atrocities   that   deserved 


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hanging,  and  justifying  his  vices  on  principle,  is  rather  too 
glaring  to  be  admissible.  And  by  another  odd  inconsistency, 
Lovelace  is  described  as  being  all  the  time  a  steady  believer 
in  eternal  punishment  and  a  rebuker  of  sceptics — Richardson 
being  apparently  of  opinion  that  infidelity  would  be  too  bad 
to  be  introduced  upon  the  stage,  though  a  vice  might  be 
described  in  detail.  A  man  who  has  broken  through  all 
moral  laws  might  be  allowed  a  little  free-thinking.  We 
might  add  that  Lovelace,  in  spite  of  the  cleverness  attributed 
to  him,  is  really  a  most  imbecile  schemer.  The  first  prin- 
ciple of  a  villain  should  be  to  tell  as  few  lies  as  will  serve 
his  purpose  ;  but  Lovelace  invents  such  elaborate  and  com- 
plicated plots,  presenting  so  many  chances  of  detection  and 
introducing  so  many  persons  into  his  secrets,  that  it  is 
evident  that  in  real  life  he  would  have  broken  down  in  a 
week. 

Granting  the  high  improbability  of  Lovelace  as  a  real 
living  human  being,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  has  every 
merit  but  that  of  existence.  The  letters  which  he  writes 
are  the  most  animated  in  the  voluminous  correspondence. 
The  respectable  domestic  old  printer,  who  boasted  of  the 
perfect  purity  of  his  own  life,  seems  to  have  thrown  himself 
with  special  gusto  into  the  character  of  a  heartless  reprobate. 
He  must  have  felt  a  certain  piquancy  in  writing  down  the 
most  atrocious  sentiments  in  his  own  respectable  parlour. 
He  would  show  that  the  quiet  humdrum  old  tradesman 
could  be  on  paper  as  sprightly  and  audacious  as  the  most 
profligate  man  about  town.  As  quiet  people  are  apt  to  do, 
he  probably  exaggerated  the  enormities  which  such  men 
would  openly  avow  ;  he  fancied  that  the  world  beyond  his 
little  circle  was  a  wilderness  of  wild  beasts  who  could  gnash 
their  teeth  and  show  their  claws  after  a  terribly  ostentatious 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  89 

fashion  in  their  own  dens ;  they  doubtless  gloated  upon  all 
the  innocent  sheep  whom  they  had  devoured  without  any 
shadow  of  reticence.  And  he  had  a  fancy  that,  in  their 
way,  they  were  amusing  monsters  too  ;  Lovelace  is  a  lady's  "^ 
villain,  as  Grandison  is  a  lady's  hero  ;  he  is  designed  by 
a  person  inexperienced  even  in  the  observation  of  vice._J^ 
Indeed,  he  would  exaggerate  the  charm  a  good  deal  more 
than  the  atrocity.  We  must  also  admit  that  when  the  old 
printer  was  put  upon  his  mettle  he  could  be  very  lively 
indeed.  Lovelace,  like  everybody  else,  is  at  times  unmerci- 
fully prolix  ;  he  never  leaves  us  to  guess  any  detail  for  our- 
selves ;  but  he  is  spirited,  eloquent,  and  a  thoroughly  fine 
gentleman  after  the  Chesterfield  type.  'The  devil  take 
such  fine  gentlemen  ! '  exclaims  somebody ;  and  if  he  does 
not,  I  see  little  use  (to  quote  the  proverbial  old  lady)  in  keep- 
ing a  devil.  But,  as  Johnson  observed,  a  man  may  be  very 
wicked  and  '  very  genteel'  Richardson  lectures  us  very 
seriously  on  the  evil  results  which  are  sure  to  follow  bad 
courses ;  but  he  evidently  holds  in  his  heart  that,  till  the 
Nemesis  descends,  the  libertines  are  far  the  most  amusing 
part  of  the  world.  In  Sir  Charles  Grandison's  company,  we 
should  be  treated  to  an  intolerable  deal  of  sermonising,  with 
an  occasional  descent  into  the  regions  of  humour — but  the 
humour  is  always  admitted  under  protest.  With  Lovelace 
we  might  hear  some  very  questionable  morality,  but  there 
would  be  a  never-ceasing  flow  of  sparkling  witticisms.  The 
devil's  advocate  has  the  laugh  distinctly  on  his  side,  what- 
ever may  be  said  of  the  argument.  Finally,  we  may  say 
that  Lovelace,  if  too  obviously  constructed  to  work  the 
plot,  certainly  works  it  well.  When  we  coolly  dissect  him 
and  ask  whether  he  could  ever  have  existed,  we  may  be 
forced  to   reply  in   the  negative.     But  whilst  we  read  we 


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forget  to  criticise  ;  he  seems  to  possess  more  vitality  than 
most  living  men  ;  he  is  so  full  of  eloquent  brag,  and  auda- 
cious sophistry,  and  unblushing  impudence,  that  he  fascinates 
us  as  he  is  supposed  to  have  bewildered  Clarissa.  The 
dragon  who  is  to  devour  the  maiden  comes  with  all  the  flash 
and  glitter  and  overpowering  whirl  of  wings  that  can  be 
desired.  He  seems  to  be  irresistible — we  admire  him  and 
hate  him,  and  some  time  elapses  before  we  begin  to  suspect 
that  he  is  merely  a  stage  dragon,  and  not  one  of  those  who 
really  walk  this  earth. 

Richardson's  defects  are,  of  course,  obvious  enough. 
He  cares  nothing,  for  example,  for  what  we  call  the  beauties 
of  nature.  There  is  scarcely  throughout  his  books  one 
description  showing  the  power  of  appealing  to  emotions 
through  scenery  claimed  by  every  modern  scribbler.  In 
passing  the  Alps,  the  only  remark  which  one  of  his  charac- 
ters has  to  make,  beyond  describing  the  horrible  dangers  of 
the  Mont  Cenis,  is  that  '  every  object  which  here  presents 
itself  is  excessively  miserable.'  His  ideal  scenery  is  a  '  large 
and  convenient  country-house,  situated  in  a  spacious  park,' 
with  plenty  of  '  fine  prospects,'  which  you  are  expected  to 
view  from  a  '  neat  but  plain  villa,  built  in  the  rustic  taste.' 
And  his  views  of  morality  are  as  contracted  as  his  taste  in 
landscapes.  The  most  distinctive  article  of  his  creed  is  that 
children  should  have  a  reverence  for  their  parents  which 
would  be  exaggerated  in  the  slave  of  an  Eastern  despot. 
We  can  pardon  Clarissa  for  refusing  to  die  happy  until  her 
stupid  and  ill-tempered  old  father  has  revoked  a  curse  which 
he  bestowed  upon  her.  But  we  cannot  quite  excuse  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  for  writing  in  this  fashion  to  his  disrepu- 
table old  parent,  who  has  asked  his  consent  to  a  certain  family 
arrangement  in  which  he  had  a  legal  right  to  be  consulted  : — 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  91 

'As  for  myself,'  he  says,  '  I  cannot  have  one  objection  ; 
but  what  am  I  in  this  case?  My  sister  is  wholly  my 
father's  ;  I  also  am  his.  The  consideration  he  gives  me  in 
this  instance  confounds  me.  It  binds  me  to  him  in  double 
duty.  It  would  look  like  taking  advantage  of  it,  were  I  so 
much  as  to  offer  my  humble  opinion,  unless  he  were  pleased 
to  command  it  from  me.' 

Even  one  of  Richardson's  abject  lady-correspondents 
was  revolted  by  this  exaggerated  servility.  But  narrow  as  his 
vision  might  be  in  some  directions,  his  genius  is  not  the  less 
real.  He  is  a  curious  example  of  the  power  which  a  real 
artistic  insight  may  exhibit  under  the  most  disadvantageous 
forms.  To  realise  his  characteristic  power,  we  should  take 
one  of  the  great  French  novelists  whom  we  admire  for  the 
exquisite  proportions  of  his  story,  the  unity  of  the  interest 
and  the  skill — so  unlike  our  common  English  clumsiness — 
with  which  all  details  are  duly  subordinated.  He  should 
have,  too,  the  comparative  weakness  of  French  novelists,  a 
defective  perception  of  character,  a  certain  unwillingness 
in  art  as  in  politics  to  allow  individual  peculiarities  to  inter- 
fere with  the  main  flow  of  events  ;  for,  admitting  the  great 
excellence  of  his  minor  performers,  Richardson's  most 
elaborately  designed  characters  are  so  artificial  that  they 
derive  their  interest  from  the  events  in  which  they  play  their 
parts,  rather  than  give  interest  to  them — little  as  he  may 
have  intended  it.  Then  we  must  cause  our  imaginary 
Frenchman  to  transmigrate  into  the  body  of  a  small,  plump, 
weakly  printer  of  the  eighteenth  century.  We  may  leave 
him  a  fair  share  of  his  vivacity,  though  considerably  narrow- 
ing his  views  of  life  and  morality  ;  but  we  must  surround 
him  with  a  court  oL  silly  Qvonien  whose  incessant  flatteries 
must  generate  in  him  an  unnatural  propensity  to  twaddle. 


92  HOURS   IN  A   LIBRARY 

It  is  curious,  indeed,  that  he  describes  himself  as  writing 
without  a  plan.      He  compares  himself  to  a  poor  woman 
lying  down  upon  the  hearth  to  blow  up  a  wretched  little  fire 
of  green  sticks.     He  had  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth.     But 
the  absence  of  an  elaborate  scheme  is  not  fatal  to  the  unity 
of  design.     He  watches,  rather  than  designs,  the  develop- 
ment of  his  plot.     He  has  so  lively  a  faith  in  his  characters 
that,  instead  of  laying  down  their  course  of  action,  he  simply 
watches  them  to  see  how  they  will  act.     This  makes  him 
deliberate  a  little  too  much  ;    they  move  less  by  impulse 
than  from   careful   reflection   upon  all   the   circumstances. 
Yet    it  also  implies   an   evolution    of  the  story   from   the 
necessity  of  the  characters  in  a  given  situation,  and  gives 
an  air  of  necessary  deduction  to  the  whole  scheme  of  his 
stories.     All  the   gossiping   propensities   of  his  nature  will 
grow  to  unhealthy  luxuriance,  and  the  fine  edge  of  his  wit 
will  be  somewhat  dulled  in    the  process.        He  will   thus 
become  capable  of  being  a  bore — a  thing  which  is  impossible 
to  any  unsophisticated  Frenchman.     In  this  way  we  might 
obtain  a   literary   product  so  anomalous  in  appearance  as 
'  Clarissa ' — a  story  in  which  a  most  affecting  situation  is 
drawn  with  extreme  power,  and  yet  so  overlaid  with  twaddle, 
so  unmercifully  protracted   and  spun  out  as  to  be  almost 
unreadable   to  the  present    generation.     But  to  complete 
Richardson,  we  must  inoculate  him  with  the  propensities  of 
another  school  :    we  must  give  him  a  liberal  share  of  the 
feminine   sensitiveness    and    closeness  of    observation    of 
wHTch  Miss  Austen  is  the  great  example.     And  perhaps,  to 
fill  in  the  last  details,  he  ought,  in  addition,  to  have  a  dash 
of  the  more  unctuous  and  offensive  variety  of  the  dissenting 
preacher — for   we    know  not  where   else   to  look   for   the  . 
astonishing  and  often  ungrammatical  fluency  by  which  he  is 


RICHARDSON'S  NOVELS  93 

possessed,  and  which  makes  his  best  passages  remind  us  of 
the  marvellous  malleability  of  some  precious  metals. 

Anyone  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  work  himself  fairly 
into  the  story  will  end  by  admitting  Richardson's  power. 
Sir  George  Trevelyan  records  and  corroborates  a  well-known 
anecdote  told  by  Thackeray  from  Macaulay's  lips.  A  whole 
station  was  infected  by  the  historian's  zeal  for  '  Clarissa.'  It 
worked  itself  up  into  a  '  passion  of  excitement,'  and  all  the 
great  men  and  their  wives  fought  for  the  book,  and  could 
hardly  read  it  for  tears.  The  critic  must  observe  that 
Macaulay  had  a  singular  taste  for  reading  even  the  trashiest 
novels  ;  and,  that  probably  an  Indian  station  at  that  period 
was  in  respect  of  such  reading  like  a  thirsty  land  after  a  long 
drought.  For  that  reason  it  reproduced  pretty  accurately 
the  state  of  society  in  which  '  Clarissa '  was  first  read,  when 
there  were  as  yet  no  circulating  libraries,  and  the  winter 
evenings  were  long  in  the  country  and  the  back  parlours  of 
tradesmen's  shops.  Probably,  a  person  eager  to  enjoy 
Richardson's  novels  now  would  do  well  to  take  them  as  his 
only  recreation  for  a  long  holiday  in  a  remote  place  and 
pray  for  steady  rain.  On  these  conditions,  he  may  enter 
into  the  whole  spirit.  And  the  remark  may  suggest  one  moral, 
for  one  ought  not  to  conclude  an  article  upon  Richardson 
without  a  moral.  It  is  that  a  purpose  may  be  a  very 
dangerous  thing  for  a  novelist  in  so  far  as  it  leads  him  to 
try  means  of  persuasion  not  appropriate  to  his  art ;  but. 
when,  as  with  Richardson,  it  implies  a  keen  interest  in  an 
imaginary  world,  a  desire  to  set  forth  in  the  most  forcible 
way  what  are  the  great  springs  of  action  of  human  beings  by 
showing  them  under  appropriate  situations,  then  it  may  be 
a  source  of  such  po\Yer  of  fascination  as  is  exercised  by  the 
greatest  writers  alone 


94 


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POPE  AS  A  MORALIST 

The  vitality  of  Pope's  writings,  or  at  least  of  certain  frag- 
ments of  them,  is  remarkable.     Few  reputations  have  been 
exposed  to  such  perils  at  the  hands  of  open  enemies  or  of 
imprudent  friends.    In  his  lifetime  '  the  wasp  of  Twickenham ' 
could  sting  through  a  sevenfold  covering  of  pride  or  stupidity. 
Lady  Mary  and  Lord  Hervey  writhed  and  retaliated  with 
little  more  success  than  the  poor  denizens  of  Grub  Street. 
But  it  is  more  remarkable  that  Pope  seems  to  be  stinging 
well  into  the  second  century  after  his  death.     His  writings 
resemble  those  fireworks  which,  after  they  have  fallen  to  the 
ground  and  been  apparently  quenched,  suddenly  break  out 
again  into  spluttering  explosions.     The  waters  of  a  literary 
revolution  have  passed  over  him  without  putting  him  out. 
Though  much  of  his  poetry  has  ceased  to  interest  us,  so 
many  of  his  brilliant  couplets  still  survive  that  probably  no 
dead  writer,  with  the  solitary  exception  of  Shakespeare,  is 
more  frequently  quoted  at  the  present  day.     It  is  in  vain 
that  he  is  abused,  ridiculed,  and  often  declared  to  be  no 
poet  at  all.     The  school  of  Wordsworth  regarded  him  as  the 
embodiment  of  the  corrupting  influence  in  English  poetry  ; 
and  it  is  only  of  late  that  we  are  beginning  to  aim  at  a  more 
catholic  spirit  in  literary  criticism.     It  is  not  our  business 
simply  to  revile  or  to  extol  the  ideals  of  our  ancestors,  but 
to  try  to  understand  them.     The  passionate  partisanship  of 


POPE  AS  A   MORALIST 


95 


militant  schools  is  pardonable  in  the  apostles  of  a  new  creed, 
but  when  the  struggle  is  over  we  must  aim  at  saner  judg- 
ments. Byron  was  impelled  by  motives  other  than  the 
purely  judicial  when  he  declared  Pope  to  be  the  'great 
moral  poet  of  all  times,  of  all  climes,  of  all  feelings,  and  of 
all  stages  of  existence  ; '  and  it  is  not  less  characteristic  that 
Byron  was  at  the  same  time  helping  to  dethrone  the  idol 
before  which  he  prostrated  himself.  A  critic  whose  judg- 
ments, however  wayward,  are  always  keen  and  original,  has 
more  recently  spoken  of  Pope  in  terms  which  recall  Byron's 
enthusiasm.  '  Pope,'  says  Mr.  Ruskin,  in  one  of  his  Oxford 
lectures,  '  is  the  most  perfect  representative  we  have  since 
Chaucer  of  the  true  English  mind  ; '  and  he  adds  that  his 
hearers  will  find,  as  they  study  Pope,  that  he  has  expressed 
for  them,  '  in  the  strictest  language,  and  within  the  briefest 
limits,  every  law  of  art,  of  criticism,  of  economy,  of  policy, 
and  finally  of  a  benevolence,  humble,  rational,  and  resigned, 
contented  with  its  allotted  share  of  life,  and  trusting  the 
problem  of  its  salvation  to  Him  in  whose  hand  lies  that  of 
the  universe.'  These  remarks  are  added  by  way  of  illustrat- 
ing the  relation  of  art  to  morals,  and  enforcing  the  great 
principle  that  a  noble  style  can  only  proceed  from  a  sincere 
heart.  '  You  can  only  learn  to  speak  as  these  men  spake  by 
learning  what  these  men  were.'  When  we  ask  impartially 
what  Pope  was,  we  may  possibly  be  inclined  to  doubt  the 
complete  soundness  of  the  eulogy  upon  his  teaching.  Mean- 
while, however,  Byron  and  Mr.  Ruskin  agree  in  holding  up 
Pope  as  an  instance,  almost  as  the  typical  instance,  of  that 
kind  of  poetry  which  is  directly  intended  to  enforce  a  lofty 
morality.  Though  we  can  never  take  either  Byron  or  Mr. 
Ruskin  as  the  representative  of  sweet  reasonableness,  their 
admiration  is  some  proof  that  Pope  possessed  great  merits 


96  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

as  a  poetical  interpreter  of  morals.  Without  venturing  into 
the  wider  ocean  of  poetical  criticism,  I  will  endeavour  to 
consider  what  was  the  specific  element  in  Pope's  poetry 
which  explains,  if  it  does  not  justify,  this  enthusiastic  praise. 
I  shall  venture  to  assume,  indeed,  that  Pope  was  a 
genuine  poet.  Perhaps,  as  M.  Taine  thinks,  it  is  a  proof  of 
our  British  grossness  that  we  still  admire  the  '  Rape  of  the 
Lock,'  yet  I  must  agree  with  most  critics  that  it  is  admirable 
after  its  kind.  Pope's  sylphs,  as  Mr.  Elwin  says,  are  legitimate 
descendants  from  Shakespeare's  fairies.  True,  they  have 
entered  into  rather  humiliating  bondage.  Shakespeare's 
Ariel  has  to  fetch  the  midnight  dew  from  the  still-vexed 
Bermoothes  ;  he  delights  to  fly — 

To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds — 

whereas  the  '  humbler  province '  of  Pope's  Ariel  is  '  to  tend 

the  fair  ' — 

To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in  showers, 
A  brighter  wash  ;  to  curl  their  waving  hairs, 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs. 
Nay,  oft  in  dreams  invention  we  bestow 
To  change  a  flounce  or  add  a  furbelow. 

Prospero,  threatening  Ariel  for  murmuring,  says  '  I  will 

rend  an  oak 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  until 
Thou  hast  howled  away  twelve  winters.' 

The  fate  threatened   to  a  disobedient   sprite   in  the   later 

poem  is  that  he  shall 

Be  stuffd  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins, 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye. 

Pope's  muse — one  may  use  the  old-fashioned  word  in  such 
a   connection — had  left  the  free  forest   for   ^\'ill's    Coffee- 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  97 

house,  and  haunted  ladies'  boudoirs  instead  of  the  brakes  of 
the  enchanted  island.  Her  wigs  were  clogged  with  'gums 
and  pomatums,'  and  her  'thin  essence'  had  shrunk  'like  a 
rivel'd  flower.'  But  a  delicate  fancy  is  a  delicate  fancy 
still,  even  when  employed  about  the  paraphernalia  of 
modern  life  ;  a  truth  which  Byron  maintained,  though  not 
in  an  unimpeachable  form,  in  his  controversy  with  Bowles. 
We  sometimes  talk  as  if  our  ancestors  were  nothing  but 
hoops  and  wigs  ;  and  forget  that  they  had  a  fair  allowance 
of  human  passions.  And  consequently  we  are  very  apt  to 
make  a  false  estimate  of  the  precise  nature  of  that  change 
which  fairly  entitles  us  to  call  Pope's  age  prosaic.  In 
showering  down  our  epithets  of  artificial,  sceptical,  and 
utilitarian,  we  not  seldom  forget  what  kind  of  figure  we  are 
ourselves  likely  to  make  in  the  eyes  of  our  own  descen- 
dants. 

Whatever  be  the  position  rightly  to  be  assigned  to  Pope 
in  the  British  Walhalla,  his  own  theory  has  been  unmistak- 
ably expressed.     He  boasts 

That  not  in  fancy's  maze  he  wandered  long, 
But  stooped  to  truth  and  moralised  his  song. 

His  theory  is  compressed  into  one  of  the  innumerable 
aphorisms  which  have  to  some  degree  lost  their  original 
sharpness  of  definition,  because  they  have  passed,  as  current 
coinage,  through  so  many  hands. 

The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 

The  saying  is  in  form  nearly  identical  with  Goethe's  remark 
that  man  is  properly  the  only  object  which  interests  man. 
The  two  poets,  indeed,  understood  the  doctrine  in  a  very 
different  way.  Pope's  interpretation  strikes  the  present 
generation  as  narrow   and   mechanical.       He   would  place 

VOL.  I.  H 


98  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

such  limitations  upon  the  sphere  of  human  interest  as  to 
exclude,  perhaps,  the  greatest  part  of  what  we  generally 
mean  by  poetry.  How  much,  for  example,  would  have  to 
be  suppressed  if  we  sympathised  with  Pope's  condemnation 
of  the  works  in  which 

Pure  description  holds  the  place  of  sense. 

Nearly  all  the  works  of  such  poets  as  Thomson  and  Cowper 
would  disappear,  Wordsworth's  pages  would  show  fearful 
gaps,  and  Keats  would  be  in  risk  of  summary  suppression. 
We  may  doubt  whether  much  would  be  left  of  Spenser, 
from  whom  both  Keats  and  Pope,  like  so  many  other  of  our 
poets,  drew  inspiration  in  their  youth.  Fairyland  would  be 
deserted,  and  the  poet  condemned  to  working  upon  ordinary 
commonplaces  in  broad  daylight.  The  principle  which 
Pope  proclaimed  is  susceptible  of  the  inverse  application. 
Poetry,  as  it  proves,  may  rightly  concern  itself  with  inani- 
mate nature,  with  pure  description,  or  with  the  presentation 
of  lovely  symbols  not  definitely  identified  with  any  cut-and- 
dried  saws  of  moral  wisdom  ;  because  there  is  no  part  of 
the  visible  universe  to  which  we  have  not  some  relation,  and 
the  most  ethereal  dreams  that  ever  visited  a  youthful  poet 
'  on  summer  eve  by  haunted  stream '  are  in  some  sense 
reflections  of  the  passions  and  interests  that  surround  our 
daily  life.  Pope,  however,  as  the  man  more  fitted  than  any 
other  fully  to  interpret  the  mind  of  his  own  age,  inevitably 
gives  a  different  construction  to  a  very  sound  maxim.  He 
rightly  assumes  that  man  is  his  proper  study ;  but  then  by 
man  he  means  not  the  genus,  but  a  narrow  species  of  the 
human  being.  '  Man '  means  Bolingbroke,  and  Walpole, 
and  Swift,  and  Curll,  and  Theobald  ;  it  does  not  mean  man 
as  the  product  of  a  long  series  of  generations  and  part  of 


POPE  AS  A   MORALIST  99 

the  great  universe  of  inextricably  involved  forces.  He  can- 
not understand  the  man  of  distant  ages ;  Homer  is  to  him 
not  the  spontaneous  voice  of  the  heroic  age,  but  a  clever 
artist  whose  gods  and  heroes  are  consciously-constructed 
parts  of  an  artificial  '  machinery.'  Nature  has,  for  him, 
ceased  to  be  inhabited  by  sylphs  and  fairies,  except  to 
amuse  the  fancies  of  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  has  not 
yet  received  a  new  interest  from  the  fairy  tales  of  science. 
The  old  idea  of  chivalry  merely  suggests  the  sneers  of 
Cervantes,  or  even  the  buffoonery  of  Butler's  wit,  and  has 
not  undergone  restoration  at  the  hands  of  modern  roman- 
ticists. Politics  are  not  associated  in  his  mind  with  any 
great  social  upheaval,  but  with  a  series  of  petty  squabbles 
for  places  and  pensions,  in  which  bribery  is  the  great  moving 
force.  What  he  means  by  religion  is  generally  not  so  much 
the  existence  of  a  divine  element  in  the  world  as  a  series  of 
bare  metaphysical  demonstrations  too  frigid  to  produce 
enthusiasm  or  to  stimulate  the  imagination.  And,  there- 
fore, he  inevitably  interests  himself  chiefly  in  what  is 
certainly  a  perennial  source  of  interest — the  passions  and 
thoughts  of  the  men  and  women  immediately  related  to 
himself  J  and  it  may  be  remarked,  in  passing,  that  if  this 
narrows  the  range  of  Pope's  poetry,  the  error  is  not  so  vital 
as  a  modern  delusion  of  the  opposite  kind.  Because  poetry 
should  not  be  brought  into  too  close  a  contact  with  the 
prose  of  daily  life,  we  sometimes  seem  to  think  that  it 
must  have  no  relation  to  daily  life  at  all,  and  consequently 
convert  it  into  a  mere  luxurious  dreaming,  where  the 
beautiful  very  speedily  degenerates  into  the  pretty  or  the 
picturesque.  Because  poetry  need  not  be  always  a  point- 
blank  fire  of  moral  platitudes,  we  occasionally  declare  that 
there  is  no  connection  at  all  between  poetry  and  morality, 

H  2 


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and  that  all  art  is  good  which  is  for  the  moment  agreeable. 
Such  theories  must  end  in  reducing  all  poetry  and  art  to 
be  at  best  more  or  less  elegant  trifling  for  the  amusement 
of  the  indolent  J  and  to  those  who  uphold  them  Pope's 
example  may  be  of  some  use.  If  he  went  too  far  in  the 
direction  of  identifying  poetry  with  preaching,  he  was  not 
wrong  in  assuming  that  poetry  should  involve  preaching, 
though  by  an  indirect  method.  Morality  and  art  are  not 
independent,  though  not  identical.  Both,  as  Mr.  Ruskin 
urges  in  the  passage  just  quoted,  are  only  admirable  when 
the  expression  of  healthful  and  noble  natures.  But,  with- 
out discussing  that  thorny  problem  and  certainly  without 
committing  myself  to  an  approval  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  solution, 
I  am  content  to  look  at  it  for  the  time  from  Pope's  stand- 
point. 

Taking  Pope's  view  of  his  poetical  office,  there  remain 
considerable  difficulties  in  estimating  the  value  of  the  lesson 
which  he  taught  with  so  much  energy.  The  difficulties 
result  both  from  that  element  which  was  common  to  his 
contemporaries  and  from  that  which  was  supplied  by  Pope's 
own  idiosyncrasies.  The  commonplaces  in  which  Pope 
takes  such  infinite  delight  have  become  very  stale  for  us. 
Assuming  their  perfect  sincerity,  we  cannot  understand  how 
anybody  should  have  thought  of  enforcing  them  with  such 
amazing  emphasis.  We  constantly  feel  a  shock  Hke  that 
which  surprises  the  reader  of  Young's  '  Night  Thoughts ' 
when  he  finds  it  asserted,  in  all  the  pomp  of  blank  verse, 

that 

Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time. 

The  maxim  has  rightly  been  consigned  to  copy-books.  And 
a  great  deal  of  Pope's  moralising  is  of  the  same  order.  We 
do   not    want   denunciations   of  misers.     Nobody   at   the 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  loi 

present  day  keeps  gold  in  an  old  stocking.  When  we  read 
the  observation, 

'Tis  strange  the  miser  should  his  cares  employ 
To  gain  the  riches  he  can  ne'er  enjoy, 

we  can  only  reply  that  we  have  heard  something  like  it 
before.  In  fact,  we  cannot  place  ourselves  in  the  position 
of  men  at  the  time  when  modern  society  was  first  definitely 
emerging  from  the  feudal  state,  and  everybody  was  suffi- 
ciently employed  in  gossiping  about  his  neighbours.  We 
are  perplexed  by  the  extreme  interest  with  which  they  dwell 
upon  the  little  series  of  obvious  remarks  which  have  been 
worked  to  death  by  later  writers.  Pope,  for  example,  is  still 
wondering  over  the  first  appearance  of  one  of  the  most 
familiar  of  modern  inventions.     He  exclaims, 

Blest  paper  credit  !  last  and  best  supply  ! 
That  lends  corruption  lighter  wings  to  fly  ! 

He  points  out,  with  an  odd  superfluity  of  illustration,  that 
bank-notes  enable  a  man  to  be  bribed  much  more  easily 
than  of  old.  There  is  no  danger,  he  says,  that  a  patriot  will 
be  exposed  by  a  guinea  dropping  out  of  his  pocket  at  the 
end  of  an  interview  with  the  minister  ;  and  he  shows  how 
awkward  it  would  be  if  a  statesman  had  to  take  his  bribes  in 
kind,  and  his  servants  should  proclaim. 

Sir,  Spain  has  sent  a  thousand  jars  of  oil  ; 
Huge  bales  of  British  cloth  blockade  the  door  ; 
A  hundred  oxen  at  your  levees  roar. 

This,  however,  was  natural  enough  when  the  South  Sea 
scheme  was  for  the  first  time  illustrating  the  powers  and  the 
dangers  of  extended  credit.  To  us,  who  are  beginning  to 
fit  our  experience  of  commercial  panics  into  a  scientific 
theory,  the  wonder  expressed    by    Pope   sounds   like   the 


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exclamations  of  a  savage  over  a  Tower  musket.  And  in  the 
sphere  of  morals  it  is  pretty  much  the  same.  All  those 
reflections  about  the  little  obvious  vanities  and  frivolities 
of  social  life  which  supplied  two  generations  of  British 
essayists,  from  the  'Tatler'  to  the  '  Lounger,'  with  an  inex- 
haustible fund  of  mild  satire,  have  lost  their  freshness.  Our 
own  modes  of  life  have  become  so  complex  by  comparison, 
that  we  pass  over  these  mere  elements  to  plunge  at  once 
into  more  refined  speculations.  A  modern  essayist  starts 
where  Addison  or  Johnson  left  off.  He  assumes  that  his 
readers  know  that  procrastination  is  an  evil,  and  tries  to  gain 
a  little  piquancy  by  paradoxically  pointing  out  the  objections 
to  punctuality.  Character,  of  course,  becomes  more  com- 
plex, and  requires  more  delicate  modes  of  analysis.  Com- 
pare, for  example,  the  most  delicate  of  Pope's  delineations 
with  one  of  Mr.  Browning's  elaborate  psychological  studies. 
Remember  how  many  pages  of  acute  observation  are  re- 
quired to  set  forth  Bishop  Blougram's  peculiar  phase  of 
worldliness,  and  then  turn  to  Pope's  descriptions  of  Addison, 
or  Wharton,  or  Buckingham.  Each  of  those  descriptions 
is,  indeed,  a  masterpiece  in  its  way ;  the  language  is  inimit- 
ably clear  and  pointed  ;  but  the  leading  thought  is  obvious, 
and  leads  to  no  intricate  problems.  Addison — assuming 
Pope's  Addison  to  be  the  real  Addison^ — might  be  cold- 
blooded and  jealous  ;  but  he  had  not  worked  out  that 
elaborate  machinery  for  imposing  upon  himself  and  others 
which  is  required  in  a  more  critical  age.  He  wore  a  mask, 
but  a  mask  of  simple  construction  ;  not  one  of  those  com- 
plex contrivances  of  modern  invention  which  are  so  like  the 
real  skin  that  it  requires  the  acuteness  and  patience  of  a 
scientific  observer  to  detect  the  difference  and  point  out  the 
nature  of  the  deception.      The  moral  difference  between 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  103 

such  an  Addison  and  a  Blougram  is  as  great  as  the  difference 
between  an  old  stage-coach  and  a  steam-engine,  or  between 
the  bulls  and  bears  which  first  received  the  name  in  Law's 
time  and  their  descendants  on  the  New  York  Stock  Ex- 
change. 

If,  therefore,  Pope  gains  something  in  clearness  and 
brilliancy  by  the  comparative  simplicity  of  his  art,  he  loses 
by  the  extreme  obviousness  of  its  results.  We  cannot  give 
him  credit  for  being  really  moved  by  such  platitudes.  We 
have  the  same  feeling  as  when  a  modern  preacher  employs 
twenty  minutes  in  proving  that  it  is  wrong  to  worship  idols 
of  wood  and  stone.  But,  unfortunately,  there  is  a  reason 
more  peculiar  to  Pope  which  damps  our  sympathy  still  more 
decidedly.  Recent  investigations  have  strengthened  those 
suspicions  of  his  honesty  which  were  common  even  amongst 
his  contemporaries.  Mr.  Elwin  was  (very  excusably)  dis- 
gusted by  the  revelations  of  his  hero's  baseness,  till  his 
indignation  became  a  painful  burden  to  himself  and  his 
readers.  Speaking  bluntly,  indeed,  we  admit  that  lying  is  a 
vice,  and  that  Pope  was  in  a  small  way  one  of  the  most 
consummate  liars  that  ever  lived.  He  speaks  himself  of 
'  equivocating  pretty  genteelly '  in  regard  to  one  of  his 
peccadilloes.  Pope's  equivocation  is  to  the  equivocation  of 
ordinary  men  what  a  tropical  fern  is  to  the  stunted  repre- 
sentatives of  the  same  species  in  England.  It  grows  until 
the  fowls  of  the  air  can  rest  on  its  branches.  His  men- 
dacity in  short  amounts  to  a  monomania.  That  a  man 
with  intensely  irritable  nerves,  and  so  fragile  in  constitution 
that  his  life  might,  without  exaggeration,  be  called  a  'long 
disease,'  should  defend  himself  by  the  natural  weapons  of 
the  weak,  equivocation  and  subterfuge,  when  exposed  to 
the   brutal  horseplay  common  in  that   day,  is  indeed  not 


I04  HOURS  IN  A  LIBRARY 

surprising.  But  Pope's  delight  in  artifice  was  something 
unparalleled.  He  could  hardly  drink  tea  without  'a 
stratagem,'  or,  as  Lady  Bolingbroke  put  it,  was  a  politician 
about  cabbages  and  turnips  ;  and  certainly  he  did  not 
despise  the  arts  known  to  politicians  on  a  larger  stage. 
Never,  surely,  did  all  the  arts  of  the  most  skilful  diplomacy 
give  rise  to  a  series  of  intrigues  more  complex  than  those 
which  attended  the  publication  of  the  '  P.  T.  Letters.'  An 
ordinary  man  says  that  he  is  obliged  to  publish  by  request 
of  friends,  and  we  regard  the  transparent  device  as,  at  most, 
a  venial  offence.  But  in  Pope's  hands  this  simple  trick 
becomes  a  complex  apparatus  of  plots  within  plots,  which 
have  only  been  unravelled  by  the  persevering  labours  of 
most  industrious  literary  detectives.  The  whole  story  was 
given  for  the  first  time  at  full  length  in  Mr.  Elwin's  edition 
of  Pope,  and  the  revelation  borders  upon  the  incredible. 
How  Pope  became  for  a  time  two  men  ;  how  in  one  char- 
acter he  worked  upon  the  wretched  Curll  through  mysterious 
emissaries  until  the  piratical  bookseller  undertook  to  pub- 
lish the  letters  already  privately  printed  by  Pope  himself ; 
how  Pope  in  his  other  character  protested  vehemently 
against  the  publication  and  disavowed  all  complicity  in  the 
preparations  ;  how  he  set  the  House  of  Lords  in  motion  to 
suppress  the  edition  ;  and  how,  meanwhile,  he  took  ingenious 
precautions  to  frustrate  the  interference  which  he  provoked  ; 
how  in  the  course  of  these  manoeuvres  his  genteel  equivo- 
cation swelled  into  lying  on  the  most  stupendous  scale— all 
this  story,  with  its  various  ins  and  outs,  may  be  now  read 
by  those  who  have  the  patience.  The  problem  may  be 
suggested  to  casuists  how  far  the  iniquity  of  a  lie  should  be 
measured  by  its  immediate  purpose,  or  how  far  it  is  aggra- 
vated by  the  enormous  mass  of  superincumbent  falsehoods 


POPE  AS  A   MORALIST  105 

which  it  inevitably  brings  in  its  train.  We  cannot  condemn 
very  seriously  the  affected  coyness  which  tries  to  conceal  a 
desire  for  publication  under  an  apparent  yielding  to  extor- 
tion ;  but  we  must  certainly  admit  that  the  stomach  of  any 
other  human  being  of  whom  a  record  has  been  preserved 
would  have  revolted  at  the  thought  of  wading  through  such 
a  waste  of  falsification  to  secure  so  paltry  an  end.  More- 
over, this  is  only  one  instance,  and  by  no  means  the  worst 
instance,  of  Pope's  regular  practice  in  such  matters.  Almost 
every  publication  of  his  life  was  attended  with  some  sort 
of  mystification  passing  into  downright  falsehood,  and,  at 
times,  injurious  to  the  character  of  his  dearest  friends.  We 
have  to  add  to  this  all  the  cases  in  which  Pope  attacked 
his  enemies  under  feigned  names  and  then  disavowed  his 
attacks  ;  the  malicious  misstatements  which  he  tried  to 
propagate  in  regard  to  Addison  ;  and  we  feel  it  a  positive 
relief  when  we  are  able  to  acquit  him,  partially  at  least,  of 
the  worst  charge  of  extorting  1,000/.  from  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough  for  the  suppression  of  a  satirical  passage. 

Whatever  minor  pleas  may  be  put  forward  in  extenua- 
tion, it  certainly  cannot  be  denied  that  Pope's  practical 
morahty  was  defective.  Genteel  equivocation  is  not  one  of 
the  Christian  graces  ;  and  a  gentleman  convicted  at  the 
present  day  of  practices  comparable  to  those  in  which  Pope 
indulged  so  freely  might  find  it  expedient  to  take  his  name 
off  the  books  of  any  respectable  club.  Now,  if  we  take 
literally  Mr.  Ruskin's  doctrine  that  a  noble  morality  must 
proceed  from  a  noble  nature,  the  inference  from  Pope's  life 
to  his  writings  is  not  satisfactory. 

We  may,  indeed,  take  it  for  demonstrated  that  Pope  was 
not  one  of  those  men  who  can  be  seen  from  all  points  of 
view.     There  are  corners  of  his  nature  which  will  not  bear 


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examination.  We  cannot  compare  him  with  such  men  as 
Milton,  or  Cowper,  or  Wordsworth,  whose  lives  are  the 
noblest  commentary  on  their  works.  Rather  he  is  one  of 
the  numerous  class  in  whom  the  excessive  sensibility  of 
genius  has  generated  very  serious  disease.  In  more  modern 
days  we  may  fancy  that  his  views  would  have  taken  a  dif- 
ferent turn,  and  that  Pope  would  have  belonged  to  the 
Satanic  school  of  writers,  and  instead  of  lying  enormously, 
have  found  relief  for  his  irritated  nerves  in  reviling  all  that 
is  praised  by  ordinary  mankind.  But  we  must  hesitate 
before  passing  from  his  acknowledged  vices  to  a  summary 
condemnation  of  the  whole  man.  Human  nature  (the  re- 
mark is  not  strictly  original)  is  often  inconsistent  ;  and,  side 
by  side  with  degrading  tendencies,  there  sometimes  lie  not 
only  keen  powers  of  intellect,  but  a  genuine  love  for  good- 
ness, benevolence,  and  even  for  honesty.  Pope  is  one  of 
those  strangely  mixed  characters  which  can  only  be  fully 
delineated  by  a  masterly  hand,  and  Mr.  Courthope  in  the  life 
which  concludes  the  definitive  edition  of  the  works  has  at  last 
performed  the  task  with  admirable  skill  and  without  too  much 
shrouding  his  hero's  weaknesses.  Meanwhile  our  pleasure 
in  reading  him  is  much  counterbalanced  by  the  suspicion 
that  those  pointed  aphorisms  which  he  turns  out  in  so 
admirably  polished  a  form  may  come  only  from  the  lips 
outwards.  Pope,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  essentially  a 
parasitical  writer.  He  was  a  systematic  appropriator — I  do 
not  say  plagiarist,  for  the  practice  seems  to  be  generally 
commendable — of  other  men's  thoughts.  His  brilliant 
gems  have  often  been  found  in  some  obscure  writer,  and 
have  become  valuable  by  the  patient  care  with  which  he 
has  polished  and  mounted  them.  We  doubt  their  perfect 
sincerity  because,  when  he  is  speaking  in  his  own  person. 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  107 

we  can  often  prove  him  to  be  at  best  under  a  curious  delu- 
sion. Take,  for  example,  the  '  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,' 
which  is  his  most  perfect  work.  Some  of  the  boasts  in  it 
are  apparently  quite  justified  by  the  facts.  But  what  are 
we  to  say  to  such  a  passage  as  this  ? — 

I  was  not  born  for  courts  or  great  affairs  ; 
I  pay  my  debts,  believe,  and  say  my  prayers  ; 
Can  sleep  without  a  poem  in  my  head, 
Nor  know  if  Dennis  be  alive  or  dead. 

Admitting  his  independence,  and  not  inquiring  too 
closely  into  his  prayers,  can  we  forget  that  the  gentleman 
who  could  sleep  without  a  poem  in  his  head  called  up  a 
servant  four  times  in  one  night  of  '  the  dreadful  winter  of 
Forty '  to  supply  him  with  paper,  lest  he  should  lose  a 
thought  ?  Or  what  is  the  value  of  a  professed  indifference 
to  Dennis  from  the  man  distinguished  beyond  all  other 
writers  for  the  bitterness  of  his  resentment  against  all  small 
critics  ;  who  disfigured  his  best  poems  by  his  petty  ven- 
geance for  old  attacks  ;  and  who  could  not  refrain  from 
sneering  at  poor  Dennis,  even  in  the  Prologue  which  he 
condescended  to  write  for  the  benefit  of  his  dying 
antagonist?  Or,  again,  one  can  hardly  help  smiling  at  his 
praises  of  his  own  hospitality.  The  dinner  which  he  pro- 
mises to  his  friend  is  to  conclude  with — 

Cheerful  healths  (your  mistress  shall  have  place), 
And,  what's  more  rare,  a  poet  shall  say  grace. 

The  provision  made  for  the  '  cheerful  healths,'  as 
Johnson  lets  us  know,  consisted  of  the  remnant  of  a  pint  of 
wine,  from  which  Pope  had  taken  a  couple  of  glasses, 
divided  amongst  two  guests.  There  was  evidently  no 
danger   of  excessive   conviviality.     And    then   a   grace  in 


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which    Bohngbroke  joined  could   not   have   been   a   very 
impressive  ceremony. 

Thus,  we  are  always  pursued,  in  reading  Pope,  by 
disagreeable  misgivings.  We  don't  know  what  comes  from 
the  heart,  and  what  from  the  lips  :  when  the  real  man  is 
speaking,  and  when  we  are  only  listening  to  old  common- 
places skilfully  vamped.  There  is  always,  if  we  please,  a 
bad  interpretation  to  be  placed  upon  his  finest  sentiments. 
His  indignation  against  the  vicious  is  confused  with  his 
hatred  of  personal  enemies  ;  he  protests  most  loudly  that 
he  is  honest  when  he  is  '  equivocating  most  genteelly ; '  his 
independence  may  be  called  selfishness  or  avarice;  his 
toleration  simply  indifference  ;  and  even  his  affection  for 
his  friends  a  decorous  fiction,  which  will  never  lead  him  to 
the  slightest  sacrifice  of  his  own  vanity  or  comfort.  A  critic 
of  the  highest  order  is  provided  with  an  Ithuriel  spear, 
which  discriminates  the  sham  sentiments  from  the  true.  As 
a  banker's  clerk  can  tell  a  bad  coin  by  its  ring  on  the 
counter,  without  need  of  a  testing  apparatus,  the  true  critic 
can  instinctively  estimate  the  amount  of  bullion  in  Pope's 
epigrammatic  tinsel.  But  criticism  of  this  kind,  as  Pope  truly 
says,  is  as  rare  as  poetical  genius.  Humbler  writers  must 
be  content  to  take  their  weights  and  measures,  or,  in  other 
words,  to  test  their  first  impressions,  by  such  external  evi- 
dence as  is  available.  They  must  proceed  cautiously  in 
these  delicate  matters,  and  instead  of  leaping  to  the  truth 
by  a  rapid  intuition,  patiently  enquire  what  light  is  thrown 
upon  Pope's  sincerity  by  the  recorded  events  of  his  life,  and 
a  careful  cross-examination  of  the  various  witnesses  to  his 
character.  They  must,  indeed,  keep  in  mind  Mr.  Ruskin's 
excellent  canon — that  good  fruit,  even  in  moralising,  can 
only  be  borne  l)y  a  good  tree.     Where  Pope  has  succeeded 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  109 

in  casting  into  enduring  form  some  valuable  moral  senti- 
ment, we  may  therefore  give  him  credit  for  having  at  least 
felt  it  sincerely.  If  he  did  not  always  act  upon  it,  the 
weakness  is  not  peculiar  to  Pope.  Time,  indeed,  has 
partly  done  the  work  for  us.  In  Pope,  more  than  in 
almost  any  other  writer,  the  grain  has  sifted  itself  from 
the  chaff.  The  jewels  have  remained  after  the  flimsy  em- 
broidery in  which  they  were  fixed  has  fallen  into  decay. 
Such  a  result  was  natural  from  his  mode  of  composition.  He 
caught  at  some  inspiration  of  the  moment ;  he  cast  it  roughly 
into  form  ;  brooded  over  it  ;  retouched  it  again  and  again  ; 
and  when  he  had  brought  it  to  the  very  highest  polish  of 
which  his  art  was  capable,  placed  it  in  a  pigeon-hole  to 
be  fitted,  when  the  opportunity  offered,  into  an  appro- 
priate corner  of  his  mosaic  work.  We  can  see  him  at 
work,  for  example,  in  the  passage  about  Addison  and  the 
celebrated  concluding  couplet.  The  epigrams  in  which  his 
poetry  abounds  have  obviously  been  composed  in  the  same 
fashion,  for  that  '  masterpiece  of  man,'  as  South  is  made  to 
call  it  in  the  '  Dunciad,'  is  only  produced  in  perfection  when 
the  labour  which  would  have  made  an  ode  has  been  con- 
centrated upon  a  couple  of  lines.  There  is  a  celebrated 
recipe  for  dressing  a  lark,  if  we  remember  rightly,  in  which 
the  lark  is  placed  inside  a  snipe,  and  the  snipe  in  a 
woodcock,  and  so  on  till  you  come  to  a  turkey,  or,  if  pro- 
curable, to  an  ostrich  ;  then,  the  mass  having  been 
properly  stewed,  the  superincumbent  envelopes  are  all 
thrown  away,  and  the  essences  of  the  whole  are  supposed 
to  be  embodied  in  the  original  nucleus.  So  the  perfect 
epigram,  at  which  Pope  is  constantly  aiming,  should  be  the 
quintessence  of  a  whole  volume  of  reflection.  Such  literary 
cookery,  however,  implies  not  only  labour,  but  an  unwearied 


no  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

vividness  of  thought  and  feehng.  The  poet  must  put  his 
soul  into  the  work  as  well  as  his  artistic  power.  Thus,  if 
we  may  take  Pope's  most  vigorous  expressions  as  an  indica- 
tion of  his  strongest  convictions,  and  check  their  conclusions 
by  his  personal  history  and  by  the  general  tendency  of  his 
writings,  we  might  succeed  in  putting  together  something 
like  a  satisfactory  statement  of  the  moral  system  which  he 
expressed  forcibly  because  he  believed  in  it  sincerely. 

Without  following  the  proofs  in  detail,  let  us  endeavour 
to  give  some  statement  of  the  result.  What,  in  fact,  did 
Pope  learn  by  his  study  of  man,  such  as  it  was  ?  What 
does  he  tell  us  about  the  character  of  human  beings  and 
their  position  in  the  universe  which  is  either  original  or 
marked  by  the  freshness  of  independent  thought  ?  Perhaps 
the  most  characteristic  vein  of  reflection  is  that  which  is 
embodied  in  the  '  Dunciad.'  There,  at  least,  we  have  Pope 
speaking  energetically  and  sincerely.  He  really  detests, 
abjures,  and  abominates  as  impious  and  heretical,  without  a 
trace  of  mental  reservation,  the  worship  of  the  great  goddess 
Dulness.  The  '  Dunciad '  does  not  show  the  quality  in 
which  Pope  most  excels,  that  which  makes  his  best  satires 
resemble  the  quintessence  of  the  most  brilliant  thought  of  his 
most  brilliant  contemporaries.  But  it  has  more  energy  and 
continuity  than  most  of  his  other  poetry.  The  '  Dunciad  ' 
often  flows  in  a  continuous  stream  of  eloquence,  instead  of 
dribbling  out  in  little  jets  of  epigram.  If  there  are  fewer 
points,  there  are  more  frequent  gushes  of  sustained  rhetoric. 
Even  when  Pope  condescends— and  he  condescends  much 
too  often— to  pelt  his  antagonists  with  mere  filth,  he  does  it 
with  a  touch  of  boisterous  vigour.  He  laughs  out.  He 
catches  something  from  his  patron  Swift  when  he 
Laughs  and  shakes  in  Rabelais's  easy  chair. 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  in 

His  lungs  seem  to  be  fuller  and  his  voice  to  lose  for  the 
time  its  tricks  of  mincing  affectation.  Here,  indeed,  there 
can  be  no  question  of  insincerity.  Pope's  scorn  of  folly  is 
to  be  condemned  only  so  far  as  it  was  connected  with  too 
bitter  a  hatred  of  fools.  He  has  suffered,  as  Swift  foretold, 
by  the  insignificance  of  the  enemies  against  whom  he  rages 
with  superfluous  vehemence.  But  for  Pope,  no  one  in  this 
generation  would  have  heard  of  Arnall,  and  Moore,  and 
Breval,  and  Bezaleel  Morris,  and  fifty  more  ephemeral  deni- 
zens of  Grub  Street.  The  fault  is,  indeed,  inherent  in  the 
plan.  It  is  in  some  degree  creditable  to  Pope  that  his  satire 
was  on  the  whole  justified,  so  far  as  it  could  be  justified,  by 
the  correctness  of  his  judgment.  The  only  great  man  whom 
he  has  seriously  assaulted  is  Bentley  ;  and  to  Pope,  Bentley 
was  of  necessity  not  the  greatest  of  classical  critics,  but  the 
tasteless  mutilator  of  Milton,  and,  as  we  must  perhaps  add, 
the  object  of  the  hatred  of  Pope's  particular  friends,  Atter- 
bury  and  Warburton.  The  misfortune  is  that  the  more  just 
his  satire,  the  more  perishable  is  its  interest  ;  and  if  we 
regard  the  '  Dunciad '  simply  as  an  assault  upon  the  vermin 
who  then  infested  literature,  we  must  consider  him  as  a  man 
who  should  use  a  steam-hammer  to  crack  a  flea.  Unluckily 
for  ourselves,  however,  it  cannot  be  admitted  so  easily  that 
Curll  and  Dennis  and  the  rest  had  a  merely  temporary 
interest.  Regarded  as  types  of  literary  nuisances — and  Pope 
does  not  condescend  in  his  poetry,  though  the  want  is  partly 
supplied  in  the  notes,  to  indulge  in  much  personal  detail 
■ — they  may  be  said  by  cynics  to  have  a  more  enduring 
vitality.  Of  course  there  is  at  the  present  day  no  such 
bookseller  as  Curll,  living  by  piratical  invasions  of  established 
rights,  and  pandering  to  the  worst  passions  of  ignorant 
readers  ;  no  writer  who  could  be  fitly  called,  like  Concanen, 


112  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

A  cold,  long-winded  native  of  the  deep, 

and  fitly  sentenced  to  dive  where  Fleet  Ditch 

Rolls  the  large  triljute  of  dead  dogs  to  Thames  ; 

and  most  certainly  we  must  deny  the  present  applicability 
of  the  note  upon  '  Magazines  '  compiled  by  Pope,  or  rather 
by  Warburton,  for  the  episcopal  bludgeon  is  perceptible  in 
the  prose  description.  They  are  not  at  present  '  the  erup- 
tion of  every  miserable  scribbler,  the  scum  of  every  dirty 
newspaper,  or  fragments  of  fragments  picked  up  from  every 
dirty  dunghill  .  .  .  equally  the  disgrace  of  human  wit, 
morality,  decency,  and  common  sense.'  But  if  the  trans- 
lator of  the  '  Dunciad  '  into  modern  phraseology  would  have 
some  difficulty  in  finding  a  head  for  every  cap,  there  are 
perhaps  some  satirical  stings  which  have  not  quite  lost 
their  point.  The  legitimate  drama,  so  theatrical  critics  tell 
us,  has  not  quite  shaken  off  the  rivalry  of  sensational  scenery 
and  idiotic  burlesque,  though  possibly  we  do  not  produce 
absurdities  equal  to  that  which,  as  Pope  tells  us,  was  actually 
introduced  by  Theobald,  in  which 

Nile  rises,  Heaven  descends,  and  dance  on  earth 
Gods,  imps,  and  monsters,  music,  rage,  and  mirth, 
A  fire,  a  jig,  a  battle  and  a  ball. 
Till  one  wide  conflagration  swallows  all. 

There  is  still  facetiousness  which  reminds  us  too  forcibly 

that 

Gentle  Dulness  ever  loves  a  joke, 

and   even    sermons,  for  which   we   may  apologise  on    the 

ground  that 

Dulness  is  sacred  in  a  sound  divine. 

Here  and  there,  too,  if  we  may  trust  certain  stern  reviewers, 
there  are  writers  who  have  learnt  the  principle  that 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  113 

Index  learning  turns  no  student  pale, 
Vet  holds  the  eel  of  Science  by  the  tail. 

And  the  first  four  lines,  at  least,  of  the  great  prophecy  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  third  book  is  thought  by  the  enemies 
of  muscular  Christianity  to  be  possibly  approaching  its  ful- 
filment : 

Proceed,  great  days  !  till  learning  fly  the  shore, 
Till  birch  shall  blush  with  noble  blood  no  more, 
Till  Thames  see  Eton's  sons  for  ever  play, 
Till  Westminster's  whole  year  be  holiday, 
Till  Isis'  elders  reel,  their  pupils  sport. 
And  Alma  Mater  lies  dissolved  in  Port  ! 

No  !     So  far  as  we  can  see,  it  is  still  true  that 
Born  a  goddess,  Dulness  never  dies. 

Men,  we  know  it  on  high  authority,  are  still  mostly  fools. 
If  Pope  be  in  error,  it  is  not  so  much  that  his  adversary  is 
beneath  him,  as  that  she  is  unassailable  by  wit  or  poetry. 
Weapons  of  the  most  ethereal  temper  spend  their  keenness 
in  vain  against  the  '  anarch  old '  whose  power  lies  in  utter 
insensibility.  It  is  fighting  with  a  mist,  and  firing  cannon- 
balls  into  a  mudheap.  As  well  rave  against  the  force  of 
gravitation,  or  complain  that  our  gross  bodies  must  be 
nourished  by  solid  food.  If,  however,  we  should  be  rather 
grateful  than  otherwise  to  a  man  who  is  sanguine  enough  to 
believe  that  satire  can  be  successful  against  stupidity,  and 
that  Grub  Street,  if  it  cannot  be  exterminated,  can  at  least 
be  lashed  into  humility,  we  might  perhaps  complain  that 
Pope  has  taken  rather  too  limited  a  view  of  the  subject. 
Dulness  has  other  avatars  besides  the  literary.  In  the  last 
and  finest  book,  Pope  attempts  to  complete  his  plan  by 
exhibiting  the  influence  of  dulness  upon  theology  and 
science.     The  huge  torpedo  benumbs  every  faculty  of  the 

VOL.  I.  I 


114  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

human   mind,   and  paralyses  all  the  Muses,  except  '  mad 
Mathesis,'  which,  indeed,  does  not  carry  on  so  internecine 
a  war  with  the  general  enemy.     The  design  is  commendable, 
and  executed,  so  far  as  Pope  was  on  a  level  with  his  task, 
with  infinite  spirit.     But,  however  excellent  the  poetry,  the 
logic  is  defective,  and  the  description  of  the  evil  inadequate. 
Pope  has  but  a  vague   conception  of  the  mode  in  which 
dulness  might  become  the  leading  force  in  politics,  lower 
religion  till  it  became  a  mere  cloak  for  selfishness,  and  make 
learning  nothing  but  laborious  and  pedantic  trifling.     Had 
his  powers  been  equal  to  his  goodwill,  we  might  have  had 
a   satire   far   more   elevated   than  anything   which   he  has 
attempted ;   for  a  man  must  be  indeed  a  dull  student  of 
history  who  does  not  recognise  the  vast  influence  ofdulness- 
worship  on  the  whole  period  which  has  intervened  between 
Pope  and  ourselves.     Nay,  it  may  be  feared  that  it  will  yet 
be  some  time  before  education  bills  and  societies  for  univer- 
sity  extension   will   have  begun    to   dissipate  the  evil.     A 
modern  satirist,  were  satire  still  alive,  would  find  an  ample 
occupation  for  his  talents  in  a  worthy  filling  out  of  Pope's 
incomplete  sketch.     But  though  I  feel,  I  must  endeavour 
to  resist  the  temptation  of  indicating  some  of  the  probable 
objects  of  his  antipathy. 

Pope's  gallant  assault  on  the  common  enemy  indicates, 
meanwhile,  his  characteristic  attitude.  Pope  is  the  incar- 
nation of  the  literary  spirit.  He  is  the  most  complete 
representative  in  our  language  of  the  intellectual  instincts 
which  find  their  natural  expression  in  pure  literature,  as 
distinguished  from  literature  applied  to  immediate  practical 
ends,  or  enlisted  in  the  service  of  philosophy  or  science. 
The  complete  antithesis  to  that  spirit  is  the  evil  principle 
which  Pope  attacks  as  dulness.     This  false  goddess  is  the 


rOPE  AS  A    MORALIST  115 

literary  Ahriman  ;   and   Tope's  natural  antipathies,  exagge- 
rated by  his  personal  passions  and  weaknesses  to  extravagant 
proportions,  express  themselves  fully  in  his  great  mock-epic. 
His  theory  may  be  expressed  in  a  parody  of  Nelson's  im- 
mortal advice  to  his  midshipmen  :   '  Be  an  honest  man  and 
hate  dulness  as  you  do  the  devil'     Dulness  generates  the 
asphyxiating  atmosphere  in  which   no  true  literature   can 
thrive.     It  oppresses  the  lungs  and  irritates  the  nerves  of 
men  whose  keen  brilliant  intellects  mark  them  as  the  natural 
servants  of  literature.      Seen  from  this  point  of  view,  there 
is  an  honourable  completeness  in  Pope's  career.     Possibly 
a  modern  subject  of  literature  may,  without  paradox,  express 
a  certain  gratitude  to  Pope  for  a  virtue  which  he  would  cer- 
tainly be  glad  to  imitate.     Pope  was  the  first  man  who  made 
an  independence  by  literature.     First  and  last,  he  seems  to 
have  received  over  8,000/.  for  his  translation  of  Homer,  a 
sum  then  amply  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  live  in  comfort. 
No  sum  at  all  comparable  to  this  was  ever  received   by  a 
poet  or  novelist  until  the  era  of  Scott  and  Byron.     Now, 
without   challenging  admiration    for  Pope   on    the   simple 
ground  that  he  made  his  fortune,  it  is  difficult  to  exaggerate 
the  importance  of  this  feat  at  the  time.     A  contemporary 
who,  whatever  his  faults,  was  a  still  more  brilliant  example 
than  Pope  of  the  purely  literary  qualities,  suggests  a  curious 
parallel.       Voltaire,    as   he   tells    us,   was  so  weary  of  the 
humiliations  that  dishonour  letters,  that  to  stay  his  disgust 
he  resolved  to  make  '  what  scoundrels  call  a  great  fortune.' 
Some  of  Voltaire's    means  of  reaching  this  end  appear  to 
have  been  more  questionable  than  Pope's.      But  both   of 
these  men  of  genius  early  secured  their  independence  by 
raising  themselves  permanently  above  the  need  of  writing 
for  money.     It  may  be  added  in  passing  that  there    is   a 

13 


ii6  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

curious  similarity  in  intellect  and  character  between  Pope 
and  Voltaire  which  would  on  occasion  be  worth  fuller  ex- 
position. The  use,  too,  which  Pope  made  of  his  fortune 
was  thoroughly  honourable.  We  scarcely  give  due  credit, 
as  a  rule,  to  the  man  who  has  the  rare  merit  of  distinctly 
recognising  his  true  vocation  in  life,  and  adhering  to  it  with 
unflinching  pertinacity.  Probably  the  fact  that  such  virtue 
generally  brings  a  sufficient  personal  reward  in  this  world 
seems  to  dispense  with  the  necessity  of  additional  praise. 
But  call  it  a  virtuous  or  merely  a  useful  quality,  we  must 
at  least  admit  that  it  is  the  necessary  groundwork  of  a 
thoroughly  satisfactory  career.     Pope,  who,  from  his  infancy, 

had 

Lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came, 

gained  by  his  later  numbers  a  secure  position,  and  used  his 
position  to  go  on  rhyming  to  the  end  of  his  life.  He  never 
failed  to  do  his  very  best.  He  regarded  the  wealth  which 
he  had  earned  as  a  retaining  fee,  not  as  a  discharge  from  his 
duties.  Comparing  him  with  his  contemporaries,  we  see 
how  vast  was  the  advantage.  Elevated  above  Grub  Street, 
he  had  no  temptation  to  manufacture  rubbish  or  descend  to 
actual  meanness  like  De  Foe.  Independent  of  patronage, 
he  was  not  forced  to  become  a  '  tame  cat '  in  the  hands  of  a 
duchess,  like  his  friend  Gay.  Standing  apart  from  politics, 
he  was  free  from  those  disappointed  pangs  which  contributed 
to  the  embitterment  of  the  later  years  of  Swift,  dying  '  like 
a  poisoned  rat  in  a  hole  ; '  he  had  not,  like  Bolingbroke,  to 
affect  a  philosophical  contempt  for  the  game  in  which  he 
could  no  longer  take  a  part  ;  nor  was  he  even,  like  Addison 
and  Steele,  induced  to  'give  up  to  party  what  was  meant 
for  mankind.'  He  was  not  a  better  man  than  some  of  these, 
and  certainly  not  better  than  Goldsmith  and  Johnson  in  the 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  117 

succeeding  generation.  Yet,  when  we  think  of  the  amount 
of  good  intellect  that  ran  to  waste  in  the  purlieus  of  Grub 
Street,  or  in  hunting  for  pensions  in  ministerial  ante-chambers, 
we  feel  a  certain  gratitude  to  the  one  literary  magnate  of 
the  century,  whose  devotion,  it  is  true,  had  a  very  tangible 
reward,  but  whose  devotion  was  yet  continuous,  and  free 
from  any  distractions  but  those  of  a  constitutional  irritability. 
Nay,  if  we  compare  Pope  to  some  of  the  later  writers  who 
have  wrung  still  princelier  rewards  from  fortune,  the  result  is 
not  unfavourable.  If  Scott  had  been  as  true  to  his  calling,  his 
life,  so  far  superior  to  Pope's  in  most  other  respects,  would 
not  have  presented  the  melancholy  contrast  of  genius  run- 
ning to  waste  in  desperate  attempts  to  win  money  at  the 
cost  of  worthier  fame. 

Pope,  as  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  as  the  adherent  of  a 
defeated  party,  had  put  himself  out  of  the  race  for  pecu- 
niary reward.  His  loyal  adherence  to  his  friends,  though, 
like  all  his  virtues,  subject  to  some  deduction,  is  really  a 
touching  feature  in  his  character.  His  Catholicism  was  of 
the  most  nominal  kind.  He  adhered  in  name  to  a  depressed 
Church  chiefly  because  he  could  not  bear  to  give  pain  to 
the  parents  whom  he  loved  with  an  exquisite  tenderness. 
Granting  that  he  would  not  have  had  much  chance  of  win- 
ning tangible  rewards  by  the  baseness  of  a  desertion,  he 
at  least  recognised  his  true  position  ;  and  instead  of  being 
soured  by  his  exclusion  from  the  general  competition,  or 
wasting  his  life  in  frivolous  regrets,  he  preserved  a  spirit  of 
tolerance  and  independence,  and  had  a  full  right  to  the  boasts 
in  which  he  certainly  indulged  a  little  too  freely  : — 

Not  Fortune's  worshipper,  nor  Fashion's  fool, 
Not  Lucre's  madman,  nor  Ambition's  tool ; 
Not  proud,  nor  servile — be  one  poet's  praise 
That,  if  he  pleased,  he  pleased  by  manly  ways  ; 


,i8  HOURS  /A  A   LIBRARY 

That  flattery,  even  to  kings,  he  held  a  shame, 
And  thought  a  He  in  prose  or  verse  the  same. 

Admitting  that  the  last  Une  suggests  a  sh'ght  qualm,  the  por- 
trait suggested  in  the  rest  is  about  as  faithful  as  one  can 
expect  a  man  to  paint  from  himself. 

And  hence  we  come  to  the  question,  what  was  the 
morality  which  Pope  dispensed  from  this  exalted  position  ? 
Admitting  his  independence,  can  we  listen  to  him  patiently 
when  he  proclaims  himself  to  be 

Of  virtue  only,  and  her  friends,  the  friend  ; 

or  when  he  boasts  in  verses  noble  if  quite  sincere — 

Yes,  I  am  proud  ;  I  must  be  proud  to  see 
Men  not  afraid  of  God,  afraid  of  me  ; 
Safe  from  the  Bar,  the  Pulpit,  and  the  Throne, 
Yet  touched  and  shamed  by  ridicule  alone. 

Is  this  guardian  of  virtue  quite  immaculate,  and  the 
morality  which  he  preaches  quite  of  the  most  elevated 
kind  ?  We  must  admit,  of  course,  that  he  does  not  sound 
the  depths,  or  soar  to  the  heights,  in  which  men  of  loftier 
genius  are  at  home.  He  is  not  a  mystic,  but  a  man  of  the 
world.  He  never,  as  we  have  already  said,  quits  the  sphere 
of  ordinary  and  rather  obvious  maxims  about  the  daily  life 
of  society,  or  quits  it  at  his  peril.  His  independence  is  not 
like  Milton's,  that  of  an  ancient  prophet,  consoling  himself 
by  celestial  visions  for  a  world  given  over  to  baseness  and 
frivolity  ;  nor  like  Shelley's,  that  of  a  vehement  revolutionist, 
who  has  declared  open  war  against  the  existing  order  ;  it  is 
the  independence  of  a  modern  gentleman,  with  a  competent 
fortune,  enjoying  a  time  of  political  and  religious  calm. 
And  therefore  his  morality  is  in  the  main  the  expression  of 


POPE  AS  A   MORALIST  119 

Ihc  conclusions  reached  by  sui)reme  good  sense,  or,  as  he 

puts  it, 

Good  sense,  which  only  is  the  gift  of  heaven, 
And  though  no  science,  fairly  worth  the  seven. 

Good  sense  is  one  of  the  excellent  qualities  to  which  we  are 
scarcely  inclined  to  do  justice  at  the  present  day ;  it  is  the 
guide  of  a  time  of  equilibrium,  stirred  by  no  vehement  gales 
of  passion,  and  we  lose  sight  of  it  just  when  it  might  give  us 
some  useful  advice.  A  man  in  a  passion  is  never  more 
irritated  than  when  advised  to  be  sensible  ;  and  at  the 
present  day  we  are  permanently  in  a  passion,  and  therefore 
apt  to  assert  that,  not  only  for  a  moment,  but  as  a  general 
rule,  men  do  well  to  be  angry.  Our  art  critics,  for  example, 
are  never  satisfied  with  their  frame  of  mind  till  they  have 
lashed  themselves  into  a  fit  of  rhetoric.  Nothing  more  is 
wanted  to  explain  why  we  are  apt  to  be  dissatisfied  with 
Pope,  both  as  a  critic  and  a  moralist.  In  both  capacities, 
however.  Pope  is  really  admirable.  Nobody,  for  example, 
has  ridiculed  more  happily  the  absurdities  of  which  we 
sometimes  take  him  to  be  a  representative.  The  recipe  for 
making  an  epic  poem  is  a  perfect  burlesque  upon  the 
pseudo-classicism  of  his  time.  He  sees  the  absurdity  of  the 
contemporary  statues,  whose  grotesque  medley  of  ancient 
and  modern  costume  is  recalled  in  the  lines — 

That  livelong  wig,  which  Gorgon's  self  might  own. 
Eternal  buckle  takes  in  Parian  stone. 

The  painters  and  musicians  come  in  for  their  share  ot 
ridicule,  as  in  the  description  of  Timon's  Chapel,  where 

Light  quirks  of  music,  broken  and  uneven, 
Make  the  soul  dance  upon  a  jig  to  heaven  ; 
On  painted  ceilings  you  devoutly  stare, 
Where  sprawl  the  saints  of  ^'errio  and  Laguerre. 


I20  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

Pope,  again,  was  one  of  the  first,  by  practice  and  precept" 
to  break  through   the   old  formal  school  of  gardening,  in 

which 

No  pleasing  intricacies  intervene, 
No  artful  wildness  to  perplex  the  scene  ; 
Grove  nods  at  grove,  each  alley  has  a  brother, 
And  half  the  platform  just  reflects  the  other. 
The  suffering  eye  inverted  Nature  sees, 
Trees  cut  to  statues,  statues  thick  as  trees. 
With  here  a  fountain  never  to  be  played. 
And  there  a  summer-house  that  knows  no  shade  ; 
Here  Amphitrite  sails  through  myrtle  bowers, 
There  gladiators  fight  or  die  in  flowers  ; 
Unwatered  see  the  drooping  sea-horse  mourn, 
And  swallows  roost  in  Nilus'  dusty  urn. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  hit  oft  more  happily  the  queer 
formality  which  annoys  us,  unless  its  quaintness  makes  us 
smile,  in  the  days  of  good  Queen  Anne,  when  Cato  still 
appeared  with  a 

Long  wig,  flowered  gown,  and  lacquered  chair.  - 

Pope's  literary  criticism,  too,  though  verging  too  often 
on  the  commonplace,  is  generally  sound  as  far  as  it  goes. 
If,  as  was  inevitable,  he  was  blind  to  the  merits  of  earlier 
schools  of  poetry,  he  was  yet  amongst  the  first  writers  who 
helped  to  establish  the  rightful  supremacy  of  Shakespeare. 

But  in  what  way  does  Pope  apply  his  good  sense  to 
morality  ?  His  favourite  doctrine  about  human  nature  is 
expressed  in  the  theory  of  the  '  ruling  passion '  which  is  to 
be  found  in  all  men,  and  which,  once  known,  enables  us  to 
unravel  the  secret  of  every  character.  As  he  says  in  the 
'  Essay  on  Man  '  — 

On  life's  vast  ocean  diversely  we  sail. 
Reason  the  card,  but  passion  is  the  gale. 


POPE   AS  A    MORALIST  121 

Right  reason,  therefore,  is  the  power  which  directs  passions 
to  the  worthiest  end  ;  and  its  highest  lesson  is  to  enforce 

The  truth  (enough  for  man  to  know) 
Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below. 

The  truth,  though  admirable,  may  be  suspected  of 
commonplace  ;  and  Pope  does  not  lay  down  any  proposi- 
tions unfamiliar  to  other  moralists,  nor,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
enforce  them  by  preaching  of  more  than  usual  effectiveness. 
His  denunciations  of  avarice,  of  corruption,  and  of  sensuality 
were  probably  of  little  more  practical  use  than  his  denuncia- 
tion of  dulness.  The  '  men  not  afraid  of  God  '  were  hardly 
likely  to  be  deterred  from  selling  their  votes  to  Walpole  by 
fear  of  Pope's  satire.     He  might 

Goad  the  Prelate  slumbering  in  his  stall 

sufficiently  to   produce   the  episcopal   equivalent   for   bad 

language ;    but   he    would   hardly   interrupt   the    bishop's 

slumbers  for  many  moments  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  might 

congratulate  himself,  rather  too  cheaply,  on  being  animated 

by 

The  strong  antipathy  of  good  to  bad. 

Without  exaggerating  its  importance,  however,  we  may 
seek  to  define  the  precise  point  on  which  Pope's  morality 
differed  from  that  of  many  other  writers  who  have  expressed 
their  general  approval  of  the  ten  commandments.  A  healthy 
strain  of  moral  feeling  is  useful,  though  we  cannot  point  to 
the  individuals  whom  it  has  restrained  from  picking  pockets. 

The  defective  side  of  the  morality  of  good  sense  is,  that 
it  tends  to  degenerate  into  cynicism,  either  of  the  indolent 
variety  which  commended  itself  to  Chesterfield,  or  of  the 
more  vehement  sort,  of  which  Swift's  writings  are  the  most 


122  HOURS  /A   A    LIBRARY 

powerful  embodiment.  A  shrewd  man  of  the  world,  of 
placid  temperament,  accepts  placidly  the  conclusion  that  as 
he  can  see  through  a  good  many  people,  virtue  generally  is 
a  humbug.  If  he  hag  grace  enough  left  to  be  soured  by 
such  a  conclusion,  he  raves  at  the  universal  corruption  of 
mankind.  Now  Pope,  notwithstanding  his  petty  spite,  and 
his  sympathy  with  the  bitterness  of  his  friends,  always  shows 
a  certain  tenderness  of  nature  which  preserves  him  from 
sweeping  cynicism.  He  really  believes  in  nature,  and 
values  life  for  the  power  of  what  Johnson  calls  reciprocation 
of  benevolence.  The  beauty  of  his  affection  for  his  father 
and  mother,  and  for  his  old  nurse,  breaks  pleasantly  through 
the  artificial  language  of  his  letters,  like  a  sweet  spring  in 
barren  ground.  When  he  touches  upon  the  subject  in  his 
poetry,  one  seems  to  see  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  to  hear  his 
voice  tremble.  There  is  no  more  beautiful  passage  in  his 
writings  than  the  one  in  which  he  expresses  the  hope  that 
he  may  be  spared 

To  rock  the  cradle  of  reposing  age, 

With  lenient  arts  extend  a  mother's  breath, 

Make  languor  smile,  and  smooth  the  bed  of  death  ; 

Explore  the  thought,  explain  the  asking  eye, 

And  keep  awhile  one  parent  from  the  sky. 

Here  at  least  he  is  sincere  beyond  suspicion  ;  and  we  know 
from  unimpeachable  testimony  that  the  sentiment  so 
perfectly  expressed  was  equally  exemplified  in  his  life.  It 
sounds  easy,  but  unfortunately  the  ease  is  not  always  proved 
in  practice,  for  a  man  of  genius  to  be  throughout  their  lives 
an  unmixed  comfort  to  his  parents.  It  is  unpleasant  to 
remember  that  a  man  so  accessible  to  tender  emotions 
should  jar  upon  us  by  his  language  about  women  generally. 
Byron    countersigns    the    opinion    of   Bolingbroke  that  he 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  123 

knew  the  sex  well ;  but  testimony  of  that  kind  hardly  pre- 
possesses us  in  his  favour.  In  fact,  the  school  of  Bolingbroke 
and  Swift,  to  say  nothing  of  Wycherley,  was  hardly  calculated 
to  generate  a  chivalrous  tone  of  feeling.  His  experience  of 
Lady  Mary  gave  additional  bitterness  to  his  sentiments. 
Pope,  in  short,  did  not  love  good  women — 

Matter  too  soft  a  lasting  mark  to  bear, 

And  best  distinguished  as  black,  brown,  or  fair, 

as  he  impudently  tells  a  lady — as  a  man  of  genius  ought  ; 
and  women  have  generally  returned  the  dislike.  Mean- 
while the  vein  of  benevolence  shows  itself  unmistakably  in 
Pope's  language  about  his  friends.  Thackeray  seizes  upon 
this  point  of  his  character  in  his  lectures  on  the  English 
Humourists,  and  his  powerful,  if  rather  too  favourable, 
description  brings  out  forcibly  the  essential  tenderness  of 
the  man  who,  during  the  lucid  intervals  of  his  last  illness, 
was  'always  saying  something  kindly  of  his  present  or  absent 
friends.'  Nobody,  as  has  often  been  remarked,  has  paid 
so  many  exquisitely  turned  compliments.  There  is  some- 
thing which  rises  to  the  dog-like  in  his  affectionate  admira- 
tion for  Swift  and  for  Bolingbroke,  his  rather  questionable 
'  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend.'  Whenever  he  speaks  of  a 
friend,    he    is  sure  to  be   felicitous.     There  is  Garth,    for 

example — 

The  best  good  Christian  he, 

Although  he  knows  it  not. 

There   are  beautiful  lines  upon    Arbuthnot,  addressed 

as — 

Friend  to  my  life,  which  did  not  you  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song. 

Or  we  may  quote,  though  one  verse  has  been  spoilt  by 


124  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

familiarity,  the  lines  in  which  Bolingbroke  is  coupled  with 
Peterborough  : — 

There  St.  John  mingles  with  my  friendly  bowl 
The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul ; 
And  he  whose  lightning  pierced  the  Iberian  lines 
Now  farms  my  quincunx,  and  now  ranks  my  vines, 
And  tames  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquered  Spain. 

Or  again,  there  are  the  verses  in  which  he  anticipates  the 
dying  words  attributed  to  Pitt : — 

And  you,  brave  Cobham,  to  the  latest  breath, 
Shall  feel  the  ruling  passion  strong  in  death  ; 
Such  in  those  moments,  as  in  all  the  past, 
'  Oh,  save  my  country,  Heaven  ! '  shall  be  your  last. 

Cobham's  name,  again,  suggests  the  spirited  lines — 

Spirit  of  Arnall  !  aid  me  while  I  lie, 
Cobham's  a  coward,  Polwarth  is  a  slave. 
And  Lyttelton  a  dark,  designing  knave  ; 
St.  John  has  ever  been  a  wealthy  fool — • 
But  let  me  add  Sir  Robert's  mighty  dull, 
Has  never  made  a  friend  in  private  life, 
And  was,  besides,  a  tyrant  to  his  wife. 

Perhaps  the  last  compliment  is  ambiguous,  but  Walpole's 
name  again  reminds  us  that  Pope  could  on  occasion  be 
grateful  even  to  an  opponent.  '  Go  see  Sir  Robert,' 
suggests  his  friend  in  the  epilogue  to  the  Satires  ;  and  Pope 

replies — 

Seen  him  I  have  ;  but  in  his  happier  hour 
Of  social  pleasure,  ill  exchanged  for  power  ; 
Seen  him  uncumbered  with  the  venal  tribe 
Smile  without  art,  and  win  without  a  bribe ; 
Would  he  oblige  me  ?     Let  me  only  find 
He  does  not  think  me  what  he  thinks  mankind  ; 
Come,  come  ;  at  all  I  laugh,  he  laughs  no  doubt ; 
The  only  difference  is,  I  dare  laugh  out. 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  125 

But  there  is  no  end  to  the  deUcate  flattery  which  may  be 
set  off  against  Pope's  ferocious  onslaughts  upon  his  enemies. 
If  one  could  have  a  wish  for  the  asking,  one  could  scarcely 
ask  for  a  more  agreeable  sensation  than  that  of  being 
titillated  by  a  man  of  equal  ingenuity  in  caressing  one's 
pet  vanities.  The  art  of  administering  such  consolation  is 
possessed  only  by  men  who  unite  such  tenderness  to  an 
exquisitely  delicate  intellect.  This  vein  of  genuine  feeling 
sufficiently  redeems  Pope's  writings  from  the  charge  of  a 
commonplace  worldliness.  Certainly  he  is  not  one  of  the 
'  genial '  school,  whose  indiscriminate  benevolence  exudes 
over  all  that  they  touch.  There  is  nothing  mawkish  in  his 
philanthropy.  Pope  was,  if  anything,  too  good  a  hater; 
'  the  portentous  cub  never  forgives,'  said  Bentley  ;  but  kind- 
liness is  all  the  more  impressive  when  not  too  widely 
diffused.  Add  to  this  his  hearty  contempt  for  pomposities, 
humbugs,  and  stupidities  of  all  kinds,  and  above  all  the 
fine  spirit  of  independence,  in  which  we  have  again  the  real 
man,  and  which  expresses  itself  in  such  lines  as  these  : 

Oh,  let  me  live  my  own,  and  die  so  too ! 

(To  live  and  die  is  all  I  have  to  do)  ; 

Maintain  a  poet's  dignity  and  ease, 

And  see  what  friends  and  read  what  books  I  please. 

And  we  may  admit  that  Pope,  in  spite  of  his  wig  and  his 
stays,  his  vanities  and  his  affectations,  was  in  his  way  as 
fair  an  embodiment  as  we  would  expect  of  that  '  plain 
living  and  high  thinking'  of  which  Wordsworth  regretted 
the  disappearance.  The  little  cripple,  diseased  in  mind 
and  body,  spiteful  and  occasionally  brutal,  had  in  him  the 
spirit  of  a  man.  The  monarch  of  the  literary  world  was  far 
from  immaculate ;  but  he  was  not  without  a  dignity  of  his 
own. 


126  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

We  come,  however,  to  the  question,  what  had  Pope  to 
say  upon  the  deepest  subjects  with  which  human  beings 
can  concern  themselves  ?  The  most  exphcit  answer  must 
be  taken  from  the  '  Essay  on  Man,'  and  the  essay  must  be 
acknowledged  to  have  more  conspicuous  faults  than  any  of 
Pope's  writings.  The  art  of  reasoning  in  verse  is  so  diffi- 
cult that  we  may  doubt  whether  it  is  in  any  case  legitimate, 
and  must  acknowledge  that  it  has  been  never  successfully 
practised  by  any  English  writer.  Dryden's  '  Religio  Laid ' 
may  be  better  reasoning,  but  it  is  worse  poetry  than  Pope's 
Essay.  It  is  true,  again,  that  Pope's  reasoning  is  intrinsic- 
ally feeble.  He  was  no  metaphysician,  and  confined  him- 
self to  putting  together  incoherent  scraps  of  different 
systems.  Some  of  his  arguments  strike  us  as  simply 
childish,  as,   for   example,  the    quibble   derived   from   the 

Stoics,  that 

The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so 
As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 

Nobody,  we  may  safely  say,  was  ever  much  comforted  by 
that  reflection.  Nor,  though  the  celebrated  argument 
about  the  scale  of  beings,  which  Pope  but  half  understood, 
was  then  sanctioned  by  the  most  eriiinent  contemporary 
names,  do  we  derive  any  deep  consolation  from  the  remark 

that 

in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  'tis  plain, 

There  must  be  somewhere  such  a  rank  as  man. 

To  say  no  more  of  these  frigid  conceits,  as  they  now  appear 
to  us.  Pope  does  not  maintain  the  serious  temper  which 
befits  a  man  pondering  upon  the  deep  mysteries  of  the 
universe.  Religious  meditation  does  not  harmonise  with 
epigrammatical  satire.  Admitting  the  value  of  the  reflec- 
tion that  other  beings  besides  man  are  fitting  objects  of  the 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  127 

Divine  benevolence,  we  arc   jarred    by  such  a  discord  as 

this  : 

While  man  exclaims,  See  all  things  for  my  use  ! 
See  man  for  mine  !  replies  a  pampered  goose. 

The  goose  is  appropriate  enough  in  Charron  or  Montaigne, 
but  should  be  kept  out  of  poetry.  Such  a  shock,  too, 
follows  when  Pope  talks  about    the    superior   beings  who 

Showed  a  Newton  as  we  show  an  ape. 

Did  anybody,  again,  ever  complain  that  he  wanted  'the 
strength  of  bulls,  the  fur  of  bears  '  ?  '  Or  could  it  be  worth 
while  to  meet  his  complaints  in  a  serious  poem  ?  Pope,  in 
short,  is  not  merely  a  bad  reasoner,  but  he  wants  that  deep 
moral  earnestness  which  gives  a  profound  interest  to  John- 
son's satires — ^the  best  productions  of  his  school — and  the 
deeply  pathetic  religious  feeling  of  Cowper. 

Admitting  all  this,  however,  and  more,  the  '  Essay  on 
Man '  still  contains  many  passages  which  not  only  testify  to 
the  unequalled  skill  of  this  great  artist  in  words,  but  show  a 
certain  moral  dignity.  In  the  Essay,  more  than  in  any  of 
his  other  writings,  we  have  the  difficulty  of  separating  the 
solid  bullion  from  the  dross.  Pope  is  here  pre-eminently 
parasitical,  and  it  is  possible  to  trace  to  other  writers,  such 
as  Montaigne,  Pascal,  Leibniz,  Shaftesbury,  Locke,  and 
Wollaston,  as  well  as  to  the  inspiration  of  Bolingbroke, 
nearly  every  argument  which  he  employs.  He  unfortunately 
worked  up  the  rubbish  as  well  as  the  gems.  When  Mr. 
Ruskin  says  that  his  '  theology  was  two  centuries  in  advance 

'  The  remark  was  perhaps  taken  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne  :  '  Thus 
have  we  no  just  quarrel  with  nature  for  leaving  us  naked  ;  or  to  envy 
the  horns,  hoofs,  skins,  and  furs  of  other  creatures  ;  being  provided 
with  reason  that  can  supply  them  all.' — Religio  Medici.  Part  I. 
sec.  18. 


128  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

of  his  time,'  the  phrase  is  curiously  inaccurate.  He  was 
not  really  in  advance  of  the  best  men  of  his  own  time  ;  but 
they,  it  is  to  be  feared,  were  considerably  in  advance  of  the 
average  opinion  of  our  own.  What  may  be  said  with  more 
plausibility  is,  that  whilst  Pope  frequently  wastes  his  skill 
in  gilding  refuse,  he  is  really  most  sensitive  to  the  noblest 
sentiments  of  his  contemporaries,  and  that,  when  he  has 
good  materials  to  work  upon,  his  verse  glows  with  unusual 
fervour,  often  to  sink  with  unpleasant  rapidity  into  mere 
quibbUng  or  epigrammatic  pungency.  The  real  truth  is 
that  Pope  precisely  expresses  the  position  of  the  best 
thinkers  of  his  day.  He  did  not  understand  the  reasoning, 
but  he  fully  shared  the  sentiments  of  the  philosophers 
among  whom  Locke  and  Leibniz  were  the  great  lights. 
Pope  is  to  the  deists  and  semi-deists  of  his  time  what  Milton 
was  to  the  Puritans  or  Dante  to  the  Schoolmen.  At  times 
he  writes  like  a  Pantheist,  and  then  becomes  orthodox, 
without  a  consciousness  of  the  transition ;  he  is  a  believer 
in  universal  predestination,  and  saves  himself  by  incon- 
sistent language  about  '  leaving  free  the  human  will ; '  his 
views  about  the  origin  of  society  are  an  inextricable  mass 
of  inconsistency  ;  and  he  may  be  quoted  in  behalf  of  doc- 
trines which  he,  with  the  help  of  Warburton,  vainly  endea- 
voured to  disavow.  But,  leaving  sound  divines  to  settle 
the  question  of  his  orthodoxy,  and  metaphysicians  to  crush 
his  arguments,  if  they  think  it  worth  while,  we  are  rather 
concerned  with  the  general  temper  in  which  he  regards  the 
universe,  and  the  moral  which  he  draws  for  his  own  edifica- 
tion. The  main  doctrine  which  he  enforces  is,  of  course, 
one  of  his  usual  commonplaces.  The  statement  that  '  what- 
ever is,  is  right,'  may  be  verbally  admitted,  and  strained  to 
different  purposes   by   half-a-dozen    differing   schools.      It 


POPE  AS  A   MORALIST  129 

may  be  alleged  by  the  cynic,  who  regards  virtue  as  an  empty 
name  ;  by  the  mystic,  who  is  lapped  in  heavenly  contem- 
plation from  the  cares  of  this  troublesome  world  ;  by  the 
sceptic,  whose  whole  wisdom  is  concentrated  in  the  duty  of 
submitting  to  the  inevitable ;  or  by  the  man  who,  abandon- 
ing the  attempt  of  solving  inscrutable  enigmas,  is  content  to 
recognise  in  everything  the  hand  of  a  Divine  ordainer  of  all 
things.  Pope,  judging  him  by  his  most  forcible  passages, 
prefers  to  insist  upon  the  inevitable  ignorance  of  man  in 
presence  of  the  Infinite  : 

'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  the  whole ; 

and  any  effort  to  pierce  the  impenetrable  gloom  can  only 
end  in  disappointment  and  discontent  : 

In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies. 

We  think  that  we  can  judge  the  ways  of  the  Almighty,  and 
correct  the  errors  of  His  work.  We  are  as  incapable  of 
accounting  for  human  wickedness  as  for  plague,  tempest, 
and  earthquake.  In  each  case  our  highest  wisdom  is  an 
humble  confession  of  ignorance  ;  or,  as  he  puts  it. 

In  both,  to  reason  right  is  to  submit. 

This  vein  of  thought  might,  perhaps,  have  conducted  him  to 
the  scepticism  of  his  master,  Bohngbroke.  He  unluckily 
fills  up  the  gaps  of  his  logical  edifice  with  the  untempered 
mortar  of  obsolete  metaphysics,  long  since  become  utterly 
uninteresting  to  all  men.  Admitting  that  he  cannot  explain, 
he  tries  to  manufacture  sham  explanations  out  of  the  '  scale 
of  beings,'  and  other  scholastic  rubbish.  But,  in  a  sense, 
too,  the  most  reverent  minds  will  agree  most  fully  with 
Pope's  avowal  of  the  limitation  of  human  knowledge.  He 
does  not  apply  his  scepticism  or  his  humility  to  stimulate  to 

VOL.  I.  K 


I30  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

vain  repining  against  the  fetters  with  which  our  minds  are 
bound,  or  an  angry  denunciation,  Hke  that  of  BoHngbroke, 
of  the  solutions  in  which  other  souls  have  found  a  sufficient 
refuge.  The  perplexity  in  which  he  finds  himself  generates 
a  spirit  of  resignation  and  tolerance. 

Hope  humbly,  then  ;  with  trembling  pinions  soar ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher,  Death,  and  God  adore. 

That  is  the  pith  of  his  teaching.  All  optimism  is  apt  to  be 
a  little  irritating  to  men  whose  sympathies  with  human 
suffering  are  unusually  strong  ;  and  the  optimism  of  a  man 
like  Pope,  vivacious  rather  than  profound  in  his  thoughts 
and  his  sympathies,  annoys  us  at  times  by  his  calm  com- 
placency. We  cannot  thrust  aside  so  easily  the  thought  of 
the  heavy  evils  under  which  all  creation  groans.  But  we 
should  wrong  him  by  a  failure  to  recognise  the  real 
benevolence  of  his  sentiment.  Pope  indeed  becomes  too 
pantheistic  for  some  tastes  in  the  celebrated  fragment — the 
whole  poem  is  a  conglomerate  of  slightly  connected  fragments 
— beginning, 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole. 
Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul. 

But  his  real  fault  is  that  he  is  not  consistently  pantheistic. 
Pope  was  attacked  both  for  his  pantheism  and  fatalism 
and  for  having  borrowed  from  Bolingbroke.  It  is  curious 
enough  that  it  was  precisely  these  doctrines  which  he  did 
not  borrow.  Bolingbroke,  like  most  feeble  reasoners, 
believed  firmly  in  Free  Will  ;  and  though  a  theist  after  a 
fashion,  his  religion  had  not  emotional  depth  or  logical 
coherence  enough  to  be  pantheistic.  Pope,  doubtless,  did 
not  here  quit  his  master's  guidance  from  any  superiority 
in   logical   perception.     But   he   did   occasionally  feel  the 


POPE  AS  A    MORALIST  131 

poetical  value  of  the  pantheistic  conception  of  the  universe. 
Pantheism,  in  fact,  is  the  only  poetical  form  of  the  meta- 
physical theology  current  in  Pope's  day.  The  old  historical 
theology  of  Dante,  or  even  of  Milton,  was  too  faded  for 
poetical  purposes  ;  and  the  '  personal  Deity,'  whose  exist- 
ence and  attributes  were  proved  by  the  elaborate  reasonings 
of  the  apologists  of  that  day,  was  unfitted  for  poetical  cele- 
bration by  the  very  fact  that  his  existence  required  proof. 
Poetry  deals  with  intuitions,  not  with  remote  inferences,  and 
therefore  in  his  better  moments  Pope  spoke  not  of  the 
intelligent  moral  Governor  discovered  by  philosophical  in- 
vestigation, but  of  the  Divine  Essence  immanent  in  all 
nature,  whose  '  living  raiment '  is  the  world.  The  finest 
passages  in  the  '  Essay  on  Man,'  like  the  finest  passages  in 
Wordsworth,  are  an  attempt  to  expound  that  view,  though 
Pope  falls  back  too  quickly  into  epigram,  as  Wordsworth 
into  prose.  It  was  reserved  for  Goethe  to  show  what  a  poet 
might  learn  from  the  philosophy  of  Spinoza.  Meanwhile 
Pope,  uncertain  as  is  his  grasp  of  any  philosophical  con- 
ceptions, shows,  not  merely  in  set  phrases,  but  in  the  general 
colouring  of  his  poem,  something  of  that  width  of  sympathy 
which  should  result  from  the  pantheistic  view.  The  tender- 
ness, for  example,  with  which  he  always  speaks  of  the  brute 
creation  is  pleasant  in  a  writer  so  httle  distinguished  as  a 
rule  by  an  interest  in  what  we  popularly  call  nature.  The 
'  scale  of  being  '  argument  may  be  illogical,  but  we  pardon 
it  when  it  is  applied  to  strengthen  our  sympathies  with  our 
unfortunate  dependants  on  the  lower  steps  of  the  ladder. 
The  lamb  who 

Licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood 

is  a  second-hand  lamb,  and  has,  like  so  much  of  Pope's 
writing,  acquired  a  certain  tinge  of  banality,  which  must 

K  2 


132  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

limit  quotation  ;  and  the  same  must  be  said  of  the  poor 

Indian,  who 

thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  will  bear  him  company. 

But  the  sentiment  is  as  right  as  the  language  (in  spite  of  its 
familiarity  we  can  still  recognise  the  fact)  is  exquisite. 
Tolerance  of  all  forms  of  faith,  from  that  of  the  poor  Indian 
upwards,  is  so  characteristic  of  Pope  as  to  have  offended 
some  modern  critics  who  might  have  known  better.  We 
may  pick  holes  in  the  celebrated  antithesis— 

For  forms  of  government  let  fools  contest : 
Whate'er  is  best  administered  is  best ; 
For  forms  of  faith  let  graceless  zealots  fight, 
He  can't  be  wrong  whose  life  is  in  the  right. 

Certainly,  they  are  not  mathematically  accurate  formulae  ; 
but   they   are   generous,  if  imperfect,  statements   of  great 
truths,  and  not  unbecoming  in  the  mouth  of  the  man  who, 
as  the  member  of  an  unpopular  sect,  learnt  to  be  cosmo- 
politan rather  than  bitter,  and  expressed  his  convictions  in 
the  well-known  words  addressed  to  Swift  :    '  I  am  of  the 
religion  of  Erasmus,  a  Catholic  ;  so  I  live,  so  I  shall  die  ; 
and   hope   one   day  to   meet   you,    Bishop  Atterbury,  the 
younger   Craggs,    Dr.    Garth,    Dean    Berkeley,    and    Mr. 
Hutchinson  in  heaven.'      Who  would  wish  to  shorten  the 
list  ?     And  the  scheme  of  morality  which    Pope  deduced 
for  practical  guidance  in  life  is  in  harmony  with  the  spirit 
which   breathes   in   those   words  just   quoted.     A   recent 
dispute   in  a   court  of  justice  show^s  that  even    our   most 
cultivated  men  have  forgotten  Pope  so  far  as  to  be  ignorant 
of  the  source  of  the  familiar  words — 

What  can  ennoble  sots,  or  slaves,  or  cowards  ? 
Alas  !  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards. 


POPE  AS  A   MORALIST  133 

It   is   therefore  necessary  to  say  explicitly  that   the  poem 

where  they  occur,  the  fourth  epistle  of  the  '  Essay  on  Man,' 

not    only    contains    half-a-dozen     other    phrases    equally 

familiar — e.g.,    '  An    honest    man's    the    noblest   work   of 

God  ; '  '     '  Looks   through   nature   up  to   nature's   God  ; ' 

'  From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe ' — but  breathes 

throughout   sentiments   which   it   would   be   credulous   to 

believe  that  any  man  could  express  so  vigorously  without 

feeling  profoundly.     Mr.  Ruskin  has  quoted  one  couplet  as 

giving  '  the  most  complete,  the  most  concise,  and  the  most 

lofty    expression    of    moral    temper    existing    in    English 

words ' — 

Never  elated,  while  one  man's  oppressed  ; 
Never  dejected,  whilst  another's  blessed. 

The  passage  in  which  they  occur  is  worthy  of  this  (let 
us  admit,  just  a  little  over-praised)  sentiment  ;  and  leads 
not  unfitly  to  the  conclusion  and  summary  of  the  whole, 

'  This  sentiment,  by  the  way,  was  attacked  by  Darnley,  in  his 
edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  as  '  false  and  degrading  to  man, 
derogatory  to  God.'  As  I  have  lately  seen  the  remark  quoted  with 
approbation,  it  is  worth  noticing  the  argument  by  which  Darnley  sup- 
ports it.  He  says  that  an  honest  able  man  is  nobler  than  an  honest 
man,  and  Aristides  with  the  genius  of  Homer  nobler  than  Aristides 
with  the  dulness  of  a  clown.  Undoubtedly  !  But  surely  a  man  might 
say  that  English  poetry  is  the  noblest  in  the  world,  and  yet  admit  that 
Shakespeare  was  a  nobler  poet  than  Tom  Moore.  Because  honesty 
is  nobler  than  any  other  quality,  it  does  not  follow  that  all  honest 
men  are  on  a  par.  This  bit  of  cavilling  reminds  one  of  De  Quincey's 
elaborate  argument  against  the  lines  : 

Who  would  not  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be  ? 

Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he? 

De  Quincey  says  that  precisely  the  same  phenomenon  is  supposed 
to  make  you  laugh  in  one  line  and  weep  in  the  other  ;  and  that  there- 
fore the  thought  is  inaccurate.  As  if  it  would  not  be  a  fit  cause  for 
tears  to  discover  that  one  of  our  national  idols  was  a  fitting  subject  for 
laughter  ! 


134  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

that  he  who   can    recognise   the   beauty  of  virtue   knows 

that 

Where  Faith,  Law,  Morals,  all  began, 
All  end—  in  love  of  God  and  love  of  man. 

I  know  but  too  well  all  that  may  be  said  against  this 
view   of  Pope's  morahty.     He  is,  as  Ste.-Beuve  says,  the 
easiest  of  all  men  to  caricature  ;  and  it  is  equally  easy  to 
throw  cold  water  upon  his  morality.     We  may  count  up  his 
affectations,  ridicule  his  platitudes,  make  heavy  deductions 
for  his  insincerity,  denounce  his  too  frequent  indulgence  in 
a  certain  love  of  dirt,  which  he  shares  with,  and  in  which 
indeed  he  is  distanced  by,  Swift ;  and  decline  to  beheve  in 
the  virtue,  or  even  in  the  love  of  virtue,  of  a  man  stained 
by  so  many  vices  and  weaknesses.     Yet  I  must  decline  to 
believe  that  men  can  gather  grapes  off  thorns,  or  figs  off 
thistles,  or  noble  expressions  of  moral  truth  from  a  corrupt 
heart  thinly  varnished  by  a  coating  of  affectation.     Turn  it 
how  we  may,  the  thing  is  impossible.     Pope  was  more  than 
a  mere  literary  artist,  though  he  was  an  artist  of  unparalleled 
excellence  in  own  department.     He  was  a  man  in  whom 
there  was  the  seed  of  many  good  thoughts,  though  choked 
in  their  development  by  the  growth  of  innumerable  weeds. 
And  I  will  venture,  in  conclusion,  to  adduce  one  more  proof 
of  the  justice  of  a  lenient  verdict.     1  have  had  already  to 
quote  many  phrases  famiJiar  to  everyone  who  is  tinctured  in 
the  slightest  degree  with  a  knowledge  of  English  literature ; 
and  yet  have  been  haunted  by  a  dim  suspicion  that  some  of 
my   readers    may  have   been   surprised  to  recognise  their 
author.     Pope,  we  have  seen,  is  recognised  even  by  judges 
of  the  land  only  through  the  medium  of  Byron  ;  and  there- 
fore the  '  Universal  Prayer '  may  possibly  be  unfamiliar  to 
some   readers.     If  so,    it   will  do  them  no  harm  to   read 


POPE  AS  A   MORALIST  135 

over  again  a  few  of  its  verses.  Perhaps,  after  that  experi- 
ence, they  will  admit  that  the  little  cripple  of  Twickenham, 
distorted  as  were  his  instincts  after  he  had  been  stretched 
on  the  rack  of  this  rough  world,  and  grievous  as  v/ere  his 
offences  against  the  laws  of  decency  and  morality,  had  yet 
in  him  a  noble  strain  of  eloquence  significant  of  deep 
religious  sentiment.  A  phrase  in  the  first  stanzas  may  shock 
us  as  bordering  too  closely  on  the  epigrammatic  ;  but  the 
whole  poem  from  which  I  take  these  stanzas  must,  I  think, 
be  recognised  as  the  utterance  of  a  tolerant,  reverent,  and 
kindly  heart  : 

Father  of  all  !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage — 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood, 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This,  teach  me  more  from  hell  to  shun  ; 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  away  ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives — 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 
Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man. 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 
Or  deal  damnation  round  the  land 

On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 


136  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay  : 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh,  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way. 

These  stanzas,  I  am  well  aware,  do  not  quite  conform  to 
the  modern  taste  in  hymns,  nor  are  they  likely  to  find 
favour  with  admirers  of  the  '  Christian  Year.'  Another 
school  would  object  to  them  on  a  very  different  ground. 
The  deism  of  Pope's  day  was  not  a  stable  form  of  belief ; 
but  in  the  form  in  which  it  was  held  by  the  pure  deists  of 
the  Toland  and  Tindal  school,  or  by  the  disguised  deists 
who  followed  Locke  or  Clarke,  it  was  the  highest  creed  then 
attainable  ;  and  Pope's  prayer  is  an  adequate  impression  of 
its  best  sentiment. 


137 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT 

The  question  has  begun  to  be  asked  about  Scott  which 
is  asked  about  every  great  man  :  whether  he  is  still  read  or 
still  read  as  he  ought  to  be  read.  I  have  been  glad  to  see 
in  some  statistics  of  popular  literature  that  the  Waverley 
Novels  are  still  among  the  books  most  frequently  bought  at 
railway  stations,  and  scarcely  surpassed  even  by  '  Pickwick,' 
or  '  David  Copperfield.'  A  writer,  it  is  said,  is  entitled  to  be 
called  a  classic  when  his  books  have  been  read  for  a  century 
after  his  death.  The  number  of  books  which  fairly  satisfies 
that  condition  is  remarkably  small.  There  are  certain 
books,  of  course,  which  we  are  all  bound  to  read  if  we  make 
any  claim  to  be  decently  educated.  A  modern  Englishman 
cannot  afford  to  confess  that  he  has  not  read  Shakespeare 
or  Milton  ;  if  he  talks  about  philosophy,  he  must  have 
dipped  at  least  into  Bacon  and  Hobbes  and  Locke  ;  if  he  is 
a  literary  critic,  he  must  know  something  of  Spenser  and 
Donne  and  Dryden  and  the  early  dramatists ;  but  how 
many  books  are  there  of  the  seventeenth  century  which  are 
still  read  for  pleasure  by  other  than  specialists  ?  To  speak 
within  bounds,  I  fancy  that  it  would  be  exceedingly  difficult 
to  make  out  a  list  of  one  hundred  English  books  which 
after  publication  for  a  century  are  still  really  familiar  to  the 
average  reader.  Something  like  ninety-nine  of  those  have 
in  any  case  lost  the  charm  of  novelty,  and  are  read,  if  read 


138  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

at  all,  from  some  vague  impression  that  the  reader  is  doing 
a  duty.  It  takes  a  very  powerful  voice  and  a  very  clear  utter- 
ance to  make  a  man  audible  to  the  fourth  generation.  If 
something  of  the  mildew  of  time  is  stealing  over  the  Waver- 
ley  Novels,  we  must  regard  that  as  all  but  inevitable.  Scott 
will  have  succeeded  beyond  any  but  the  very  greatest,  per- 
haps even  as  much  as  the  very  greatest,  if,  in  the  twentieth 
century,  now  so  unpleasantly  near,  he  has  a  band  of  faithful 
followers,  who  still  read  because  they  like  to  read  and  not 
because  they  are  told  to  read.  Admitting  that  he  must 
more  or  less  undergo  the  universal  fate,  that  the  glory  must 
be  dimmed  even  though  it  be  not  quenched,  we  may  still 
ask  whether  he  will  not  retain  as  much  vitality  as  the  con- 
ditions of  humanity  permit  :  Will  our  posterity  understand 
at  least  why  he  was  once  a  luminary  of  the  first  magnitude, 
or  wonder  at  their  ancestors'  hallucination  about  a  mere  will- 
o'-the-wisp  ?  Will  some  of  his  best  performances  stand  out 
like  a  cathedral  amongst  ruined  hovels,  or  will  they  all  sink 
into  the  dust  together,  and  the  outlines  of  what  once 
charmed  the  world  be  traced  only  by  Dryasdust  and  histor- 
ians of  literature?  It  is  a  painful  task  to  examine  such 
questions  impartially.  This  probing  a  great  reputation,  and 
doubting  whether  we  can  come  to  anything  solid  at  the 
bottom,  is  especially  painful  in  regard  to  Scott.  For  he  has, 
at  least,  this  merit,  that  he  is  one  of  those  rare  natures  for 
whom  we  feel  not  merely  admiration  but  affection.  We 
may  cherish  the  fame  of  some  writers  in  spite  of,  not  on 
account  of,  many  personal  defects  ;  if  we  satisfied  ourselves 
that  their  literary  reputations  were  founded  on  the  sand,  we 
might  partly  console  ourselves  with  the  thought  that  we 
were  only  depriving  bad  men  of  a  title  to  genius.  But  for 
Scott  most  men  feel  in  even  stronger  measure  that  kind  of 


S/Ji    WALTER  SCOTT  139 

warm  fraternal  regard  which  Macaulay  and  Thackeray 
expressed  for  the  amiable,  but,  perhaps,  rather  cold-blooded, 
Addison.  The  manliness  and  the  sweetness  of  the  man's 
nature  predispose  us  to  return  the  most  favourable  verdict 
in  our  power.  And  we  may  add  that  Scott  is  one  of  the 
last  great  English  writers  whose  influence  extended  beyond 
his  island,  and  gave  a  stimulus  to  the  development  of  Euro- 
pean thought.  We  cannot  afford  to  surrender  our  faith  in 
one  to  whom,  whatever  his  permanent  merits,  we  must  trace 
so  much  that  is  characteristic  of  the  mind  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Whilst,  finally,  if  we  have  any  Scotch  blood  in 
our  veins,  we  must  be  more  or  less  than  men  to  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  the  promptings  of  patriotism.  When  Shakespeare's 
fame  decays  everywhere  else,  the  inhabitants  of  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  if  it  still  exist,  should  still  revere  their  tutelary 
saint ;  and  the  old  town  of  Edinburgh  should  tremble  in  its 
foundation  when  a  sacrilegious  hand  is  laid  upon  the  glory 
of  Scott. 

Let  us,  however,  take  courage,  and,  with  such  impar- 
tiality as  we  may  possess,  endeavour  to  sift  the  wheat  from 
the  chaff.  And,  by  way  of  following  an  able  guide,  let  us 
dwell  for  a  Uttle  on  the  judgment  pronounced  upon  Scott 
by  one  whose  name  I  would  never  mention  without  pro- 
found respect,  and  who  has  a  special  claim  to  be  heard  in 
this  case.  Carlyle  is  (I  must  now  say  was)  both  a  man 
of  genius  and  a  Scotchman.  His  own  writings  show  in 
every  line  that  he  comes  of  the  same  strong  Protestant  race 
from  which  Scott  received  his  best  qualities.  '  The  Scotch 
national  character,'  says  Carlyle  himself,  '  originates  in  many 
circumstances.  First  of  all,  the  Saxon  stuff  there  was  to 
work  on  ;  but  next,  and  beyond  all  else  except  that,  in  the 
Presbyterian   gospel   of  John    Knox.      It   seems   a   good 


I40  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

national  character,  and,  on  some  sides,  not  so  good.  Let 
Scott  thank  John  Knox,  for  he  owed  him  much,  Httle  as  he 
dreamed  of  debt  in  that  quarter.  No  Scotchman  of  his 
time  was  more  entirely  Scotch  than  Walter  Scott :  the  good 
and  the  not  so  good,  which  all  Scotchmen  inherit,  ran 
through  every  fibre  of  him.'  Nothing  more  true  ;  and  the 
words  would  be  as  strikingly  appropriate  if  for  Walter  Scott 
we  substitute  Thomas  Carlyle.  And  to  this  source  of  sym- 
pathy we  might  add  others.  Who  in  this  generation  could 
rival  Scott's  talent  for  the  picturesque,  unless  it  be  Carlyle  ? 
Who  has  done  so  much  to  apply  the  lesson  which  Scott,  as 
he  says,  first  taught  us — that  the  '  bygone  ages  of  the  world 
were  actually  filled  by  living  men,  not  by  protocols,  state- 
papers,  controversies,  and  abstractions  of  men '  ?  If  Scott 
would  in  old  days — I  still  quote  his  critic — have  harried 
cattle  in  Tynedale  or  cracked  crowns  in  Redswire,  would 
not  Carlyle  have  thundered  from  the  pulpit  of  John  Knox 
his  own  gospel,  only  in  slightly  altered  phraseology — that 
shams  should  not  live  but  die,  and  that  men  should  do  what 
work  lies  nearest  to  their  hands,  as  in  the  presence  of  the 
eternities  and  the  infinite  silences  ? 

The  last  parallel  reminds  us  that  if  there  are  points  of 
similarity,  there  are  contrasts  both  wide  and  deep.  The 
rugged  old  apostle  had  probably  a  very  low  opinion  of  moss- 
troopers, and  Carlyle  has  a  message  to  deliver  to  his  fellow- 
creatures,  which  is  not  quite  according  to  Scott.  And  thus 
we  see  throughout  his  interesting  essay  a  kind  of  struggle 
between  two  opposite  tendencies — a  genuine  liking  for  the 
man,  tempered  by  a  sense  that  Scott  dealt  rather  too  much 
in  those  same  shams  to  pass  muster  wath  a  stern  moral 
censor.  Nobody  can  touch  Scott's  character  more  finely. 
There  is  a  charming  little  anecdote  which  every  reader  must 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT  141 

remember  :  how  there  was  a  '  httle  Blenheim  cocker  '  of 
singular  sensibility  and  sagacity  ;  how  the  said  cocker  would 
at  times  fall  into  musings  like  those  of  a  Wertherean  poet, 
and  lived  in  perpetual  fear  of  strangers,  regarding  them  all 
as  potentially  dog-stealers  ;  how  the  dog  was,  nevertheless, 
endowed  with  '  most  amazing  moral  tact,' and  specially  hated 
the  genus  quack,  and,  above  all,  that  oi acrid-quack.  '  These,' 
says  Carlyle, '  though  never  so  clear-starched,  bland-smiling, 
and  beneficent,  he  absolutely  would  have  no  trade  with. 
Their  very  sugar-cake  was  unavailing.  He  said  with 
emphasis,  as  clearly  as  barking  could  say  it,  "  Acrid-quack, 
avaunt  !  "  '  But  once  when  '  a  tall,  irregular,  busy-looking 
man  came  halting  by,'  that  wise,  nervous  little  dog  ran  to- 
wards him,  and  began  '  fawning,  frisking,  licking  at  the 
feet '  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  No  reader  of  reviews  could  have 
done  better,  says  Carlyle ;  and,  indeed,  that  canine  testi- 
monial was  worth  having.  I  prefer  that  little  anecdote  even 
to  Lockhart's  account  of  the  pig  which  had  a  romantic 
affection  for  the  author  of  '  Waverley.'  Its  relater  at  least 
perceived  and  loved  that  unaffected  benevolence,  which  in- 
vested even  Scott's  bodily  presence  with  a  kind  of  natural 
aroma,  perceptible,  as  it  would  appear,  to  very  far-away 
cousins.  But  Carlyle  is  on  his  guard,  and  though  his  sym- 
pathy flows  kindly  enough,  it  is  rather  harshly  intercepted 
by  his  sterner  mood.  He  cannot,  indeed,  but  warm  to  Scott 
at  the  end.  After  touching  on  the  sad  scene  of  Scott's 
closing  years,  at  once  ennobled  and  embittered  by  that  last 
desperate  struggle  to  clear  off  the  burden  of  debt,  he  con- 
cludes with  genuine  feeling.  '  It  can  be  said  of  Scott,  when 
he  departed  he  took  a  man's  life  along  with  him.  No 
sounder  piece  of  British  manhood  was  put  together  in  that 
eighteenth  century  of  time.     Alas,  his  fine  Scotch  face,  with 


142  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

its  shaggy  honesty,  sagacity,  and  goodness,  when  we  saw  it 
latterly  on  the  Edinburgh  streets,  was  all  worn  with  care, 
the  joy  all  fled  from  it,  ploughed  deep  with  labour  and 
sorrow.  We  shall  never  forget  it — we  shall  never  see  it 
again.  Adieu,  Sir  Walter,  pride  of  all  Scotchmen  ;  take 
our  proud  and  sad  farewell.' 

If  even  the  Waverley  Novels  should  lose  their  interest, 
the  last  journals  of  Scott,  recently  published  by  a  judicious 
editor,  can  never  lose  their  interest  as  the  record  of  one  of 
the  noblest  struggles  ever  carried  on  by  a  great  man  to  re- 
deem a  lamentable  error.     It  is  a  book  to  do  one  good. 

And  now  it  is  time  to  turn  to  the  failings  which,  in 
Carlyle's  opinion,  mar  this  pride  of  all  Scotchmen,  and  make 
his  permanent  reputation  doubtful.  The  faults  upon  which 
he  dwells  are,  of  course,  those  which  are  more  or  less 
acknowledged  by  all  sound  critics.  Scott,  says  Carlyle,  had 
no  great  gospel  to  deliver ;  he  had  nothing  of  the  martyr 
about  him  ;  he  slew  no  monsters  and  stirred  no  deep 
emotions.  He  did  not  believe  in  anything,  and  did  not 
even  disbelieve  in  anything  :  he  was  content  to  take  the 
world  as  it  came  —  the  false  and  the  true  mixed  indistin- 
guishably  together.  One  Ram-dass,  a  Hindoo,  'who  set 
up  for  god-head  lately,'  being  asked  what  he  meant  to  do 
with  the  sins  of  mankind,  replied  that  '  he  had  fire  enough 
in  his  belly  to  burn  up  all  the  sins  in  the  world.'  Ram-dass 
had  '  some  spice  of  sense  in  him.'  Now,  of  fire  of  that  kind 
we  can  detect  few  sparks  in  Scott.  He  was  a  thoroughly 
healthy,  sound,  vigorous  Scotchman,  with  an  eye  for  the 
main  chance,  but  not  much  of  an  eye  for  the  eternities. 
And  that  unfortunate  commercial  element,  which  caused  the 
misery  of  his  life,  was  equally  mischievous  to  his  work.  He 
cared  for  no  results  of  his  working  but  such  as  could  be 


S/R    WALTER  SCOTT  143 

seen  by  the  eye,  and,  in  one  sense  or  other,  '  handled,  looked 
at,  and  buttoned  into  the  breeches'  pocket.'  He  regarded 
literature  rather  as  a  trade  than  an  art  ;  and  literature, 
unless  it  is  a  very  poor  affair,  should  have  higher  aims  than 
that  of  '  harmlessly  amusing  indolent,  languid  men.'  Scott 
would  not  afford  the  time  or  the  trouble  to  go  to  the  root 
of  the  matter,  and  is  content  to  amuse  us  with  mere  contrasts 
of  costume,  which  will  lose  their  interest  when  the  swallow- 
tail is  as  obsolete  as  the  buff-coat.  And  then  he  fell  into 
the  modern  sin  of  extempore  writing,  and  deluged  the  world 
with  the  first  hasty  overflowings  of  his  mind,  instead  of 
straining  and  refining  it  till  he  could  bestow  the  pure  essence 
upon  us.  In  short,  his  career  is  summed  up  in  the  phrase 
that  it  was  '  writing  impromptu  novels  to  buy  farms  with  ' — 
a  melancholy  end,  truly,  for  a  man  of  rare  genius.  Nothing 
is  sadder  than  to  hear  of  such  a  man  'writing  himself  out ;' 
and  it  is  pitiable  indeed  that  Scott  should  be  the  example 
of  that  fate  which  rises  most  naturally  to  our  minds.  '  Some- 
thing very  perfect  in  its  kind,'  says  Carlyle,  '  might  have 
come  from  Scott,  nor  was  it  a  low  kind — nay,  who  knows 
how  high,  with  studious  self-concentration,  he  might  have 
gone  :  what  wealth  nature  implanted  in  him,  which  his  cir- 
cumstances, most  unkind  while  seeming  to  be  kindest,  had 
never  impelled  him  to  unfold?  ' 

There  is  undoubtedly  some  truth  in  the  severer  criticisms 
to  which  some  more  kindly  sentences  are  a  pleasant  relief ; 
but  there  is  something  too  which  most  persons  will  be  apt 
to  consider  as  rather  harsher  than  necessary.  Is  not  the 
moral  preacher  intruding  a  little  too  much  on  the  province 
of  the  literary  critic  ?  In  fact  we  fancy  that,  in  the  midst 
of  these  energetic  remarks,  Carlyle  is  conscious  of  certain 
half-expressed  doubts.     The  name  of  Shakespeare  occurs 


144  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

several  times  in  the  course  of  his  remarks,  and  suggests  to 
us  that  we  can  hardly  condemn  Scott  whilst  acquitting  the 
greatest  name  in  our  literature.  Scott,  it  seems,  wrote  for 
money  ;  he  coined  his  brains  into  cash  to  buy  farms.  Did 
not  Shakespeare  do  pretty  much  the  same  ?  As  Carlyle 
himself  puts  it,  '  beyond  drawing  audiences  to  the  Globe 
Theatre,  Shakespeare  contemplated  no  result  in  those  plays 
of  his.'     Shakespeare,  as  Pope  puts  it, 

Whom  you  and  every  playhouse  bill 
Style  the  divine,  the  matchless,  what  you  will, 
For  gain,  not  glory,  wing'd  his  roving  flight. 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite. 

To  write  for  money  was  long  held  to  be  disgraceful ; 
and  Byron,  as  we  know,  taunted  Scott  because  his  publishers 
combined 

To  yield  his  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line  ; 

whilst  Scott  seems  half  to  admit  that  his  conduct  required 
justification,  and  urges  that  he  sacrificed  to  literature  very 
fair  chances  in  his  original  profession.  Many  people  might, 
perhaps,  be  disposed  to  take  a  bolder  line  of  defence.  Cut 
out  of  English  fiction  all  that  which  has  owed  its  birth 
more  or  less  to  a  desire  of  earning  money  honourably,  and 
the  residue  would  be  painfully  small.  The  truth,  indeed, 
seems  to  be  simple.  No  good  work  is  done  when  the  one 
impelling  motive  is  the  desire  of  making  a  little  money  ; 
but  some  of  the  best  work  that  has  ever  been  done  has 
been  indirectly  due  to  the  impecuniosity  of  the  labourers. 
When  a  man  is  empty  he  makes  a  very  poor  job  of  it,  in 
straining  colourless  trash  from  his  hardbound  brains  ;  but 
when  his  mind  is  full  to  bursting  he  may  still  require  the 


S/R    WALTER   SCOTT  145 

spur  of  a  moderate  craving  for  cash  to  induce  him  to  take 
the  decisive  plunge.  Scott  illustrates  both  cases.  The 
melancholy  drudgery  of  his  later  years  was  forced  from  him 
in  spite  of  nature ;  but  nobody  ever  wrote  more  spontane- 
ously than  Scott  when  he  was  composing  his  early  poems 
and  novels.  If  the  precedent  of  Shakespeare  is  good  for 
anything,  it  is  good  for  this.  Shakespeare,  it  may  be,  had 
a  more  moderate  ambition ;  but  there  seems  to  be  no 
reason  why  the  desire  of  a  good  house  at  Stratford  should 
be  intrinsically  nobler  than  the  desire  of  a  fine  estate  at 
Abbotsford.  But  then,  it  is  urged,  Scott  allowed  himself  to 
write  with  preposterous  haste.  And  Shakespeare,  who 
never  blotted  a  line  !  What  is  the  great  difference  between 
them  ?  Mr.  Carlyle  feels  that  here  too  Scott  has  at  least 
a  very  good  precedent  to  allege  ;  but  he  endeavours  to 
establish  a  distinction.  It  was  right,  he  says,  for  Shake- 
speare to  write  rapidly,  '  being  ready  to  do  it.  And  herein 
truly  lies  the  secret  of  the  matter  ;  such  swiftness  of  writing, 
after  due  energy  of  preparation,  is,  doubtless,  the  right 
method ;  the  hot  furnace  having  long  worked  and 
simmered,  let  the  pure  gold  flow  out  at  one  gush.'  Could 
there  be  a  better  description  of  Scott  in  his  earlier  years  ? 
He  published  his  first  poem  of  any  pretensions  at  thirty- 
four,  an  age  which  Shelley  and  Keats  never  reached,  and 
which  Byron  only  passed  by  two  years.  '  Waverley '  came 
out  when  he  was  forty-three — most  of  our  modern  novelists 
have  written  themselves  out  long  before  they  arrive  at  that 
respectable  period  of  life.  From  a  child  he  had  been 
accumulating  the  knowledge  and  the  thoughts  that  at  last 
found  expression  in  his  work.  He  had  been  a  teller  of 
stories  before  he  was  well  in  breeches  ;  and  had  worked 
hard  till  middle  life  in  accumulating  vast  stores  of  pictur- 

VOL.  I.  L 


146  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

esque  imagery.     The  delightful  notes  to  all  his  books  give 
us  some  impression  of  the  fulness  of  mind  which  poured 
forth   a   boundless   torrent    of  anecdote   to   the  guests  at 
Abbotsford.      We   only  repine   at   the   prodigality  of  the 
harvest  when  we  forget  the  long  process  of  culture  by  which 
it  was  produced.     And,  more  than  this,  when  we  look  at 
the  peculiar  characteristics  of  Scott's  style — that  easy  flow 
of  narrative  never  heightening  into  epigram,  and  indeed,  to 
speak  the  truth,  full  of  slovenly  blunders  and  amazing  gram- 
matical solecisms,  but  also  always  full  of  a  charm  of  fresh- 
ness  and   fancy  most   difficult   to   analyse — we   may  well 
doubt   whether   much   labour    would    have    improved   or 
injured  him.     No  man  ever  depended  more  on  the   per- 
fectly spontaneous  flow  of  his  narratives.     Carlyle  quotes 
Schiller  against   him,  amongst   other  and   greater   names. 
We  need  not  attempt  to  compare  the  two  men  ;  but  do  not 
SchiUer's   tragedies   smell   rather   painfully   of  the  lamp  ? 
Does   not   the   professor   of  aesthetics   pierce   a  little   too 
distinctly  through  the  exterior  of  the  poet  ?     And,  for  one 
example,    are    not    Schiller's    excellent     but     remarkably 
platitudinous  peasants  in  '  William  Tell '  miserably  colour- 
less  alongside   of  Scott's  rough  border  dalesmen,  racy  of 
speech,  and  redolent  of  their  native  soil  in  every  word  and 
gesture  ?      To   every   man   his   method   according   to  his 
talent.     Scott  is  the  most  perfectly  delightful  of  story-tellers, 
and  it  is  the  very  essence  of  story-telling  that  it  should  not 
follow  prescribed  canons  of  criticism,  but  be  as  natural  as 
the  talk  by  firesides,  and  it  is  to  be   feared,    over   many 
gallons  of  whisky-toddy,  of  which  it  is,,  in  fact,  the  refined 
essence.     Scott  skims  off"  the  cream  of  his  varied  stores  of 
popular   tradition   and   antiquarian   learning   with  strange 
facility  ;  but  he  had  tramped  through  many  a  long  day's 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT  147 

march,  and  pored  over  innumerable  ballads  and  forgotten 
writers,  before  he  had  anything  to  skim.  Had  he  not — if 
we  may  use  the  word  without  offence — been  cramming  all 
his  life,  and  practising  the  art  of  story-telling  every  day 
he  lived  ?  Probably  the  most  striking  incidents  of  his 
books  are  in  reality  mere  modifications  of  anecdotes  which  he 
had  rehearsed  a  hundred  times  before,  just  disguised  enough 
to  fit  into  his  story.  Who  can  read,  for  example,  the  inimi- 
table legend  of  the  blind  piper  in  '  Redgauntlet '  without 
seeing  that  it  bears  all  the  marks  of  long  elaboration  as 
clearly  as  one  of  those  discourses  of  Whitfield,  which,  by 
constant  repetition,  became  marvels  of  dramatic  art  ?  He 
was  an  impromptu  composer,  in  the  sense  that  when  his 
anecdotes  once  reached  paper,  they  flowed  rapidly,  and 
were  little  corrected  ;  but  the  correction  must  have  been 
substantially  done  in  many  cases  long  before  they  appeared 
in  the  state  of  '  copy.' 

Let  us,  however,  pursue  the  indictment  a  little  further. 
Scott  did  not  believe  in  anything  in  particular.  Yet  once 
more,  did  Shakespeare?  There  is  surely  a  poetry  of  doubt 
as  well  as  a  poetry  of  conviction,  or  what  shall  we  say  to 
'  Hamlet '  ?  Appearing  in  such  an  age  as  the  end  of  the 
last  and  the  beginning  of  this  century,  Scott  could  but 
share  the  intellectual  atmosphere  in  which  he  was  born, 
and  at  that  day,  whatever  we  may  think  of  this,  few  people 
had  any  strong  faith  to  boast  of.  Why  should  not  a  poet 
stand  aside  from  the  chaos  of  conflicting  opinions,  so  far  as 
he  was  able  to  extricate  himself  from  the  unutterable  confu- 
sion around  them,  and  show  us  what  was  beautiful  in  the 
world  as  he  saw  it,  without  striving  to  combine  the  office  of 
prophet  with  his  more  congenial  occupation  ?     Carlyle  did 

not  mean  to  urge  so  feeble  a  criticism  as  that  Scott  had  no 

L  2 


148  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

very  uncompromising  belief  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  ;  for 
that  is  a  weakness  which  he  would  share  with  his  critic  and 
with  his  critic's  idol,  Goethe.  The  meaning  is  partly  given 
by  another  phrase.  '  While  Shakespeare  works  from  the 
heart  outwards,  Scott,'  says  Carlyle,  '  works  from  the  skin 
inwards,  never  getting  near  the  heart  of  men.'  The  books 
are  addressed  entirely  to  the  every-day  mind.  They  have 
nothing  to  do  with  emotions  or  principles,  beyond  those  of 
the  ordinary  country  gentleman  ;  and,  we  may  add,  of  the 
country  gentleman  with  his  digestion  in  good  order,  and 
his  hereditary  gout  still  in  the  distant  future.  The  more 
inspiring  thoughts,  the  deeper  passions,  are  seldom  roused. 
If  in  his  width  of  sympathy,  and  his  vivid  perception  of 
character  within  certain  limits,  he  reminds  us  of  Shakespeare, 
we  can  find  no  analogy  in  his  writings  to  the  passion  of 
'  Romeo  and  JuHet,'  or  to  the  intellectual  agony  of  '  Ham- 
let.' The  charge  is  not  really  that  Scott  lacks  faith,  but 
that  he  never  appeals,  one  way  or  the  other,  to  the  faculties 
which  make  faith  a  vital  necessity  to  some  natures,  or  lead 
to  a  desperate  revolt  against  established  faiths  in  others.  If 
Byron  and  Scott  could  have  been  combined  ;  if  the  ener- 
getic passions  of  the  one  could  have  been  joined  to  the 
healthy  nature  and  quick  sympathies  of  the  other,  we  might 
have  seen  another  Shakespeare  in  the  nineteenth  century. 
As  it  is,  both  of  them  are  maimed  and  imperfect  on  different 
sides.  It  is,  in  fact,  remarkable  how  Scott  fails  when  he 
attempts  a  flight  into  the  regions  where  he  is  less  at  home 
than  in  his  ordinary  style.  Take,  for  instance,  a  passage 
from  '  Rob  Roy,'  where  our  dear  friend,  the  Bailie,  Nicol 
Jarvie,  is  taken  prisoner  by  Rob  Roy's  amiable  wife,  and 
appeals  to  her  feelings  of  kinship.  '  "  I  dinna  ken,"  said  the 
undaunted  Bailie,  "  if  the  kindred  has  ever  been  weel  redd 


S//?    WALTER  SCOTT  149 

out  to  you  yet,  cousin — but  it's  kenned,  and  can  be  proved. 
My  mother,  Elspeth  Macfarlane  (otherwise  Macgregor), 
was  the  wife  of  my  father,  Denison  Nicol  Jarvie  (peace  be 
with  them  baith),  and  Elspeth  was  the  daughter  of  Farlane 
Macfarlane  (or  Macgregor),  at  the  shielding  of  Loch  Sloy. 
Now  this  Farlane  Macfarlane  (or  Macgregor),  as  his  sur- 
viving daughter,  Maggy  Macfarlane,  wha  married  Duncan 
Macnab  of  Stuckavrallachan,  can  testify,  stood  as  near  to 
your  gudeman,  Robin  Macgregor,  as  in  the  fourth  degree 
of  kindred,  fur " 

'  The  virago  lopped  the  genealogical  tree  by  demanding 
haughtily  if  a  stream  of  rushing  water  acknowledged  any 
relation  with  the  portion  withdrawn  from  it  for  the  mean 
domestic  uses  of  those  who  dwelt  on  its  banks  ? ' 

The  Bailie  is  as  real  a  human  being  as  ever  lived — as 
the  present  Lord  Mayor,  or  Dandie  Dinmont,  or  Sir  Walter 
himself;  but  Mrs.  Macgregor  has  obviously  just  stepped  off 
the  boards  of  a  minor  theatre,  devoted  to  the  melodrama. 
As  long  as  Scott  keeps  to  his  strong  ground,  his  figures  are 
as  good  flesh  and  blood  as  ever  walked  in  the  Saltmarket 
of  Glasgow  ;  when  once  he  tries  his  heroics,  he  too  often 
manufactures  his  characters  from  the  materials  used  by  the 
frequenters  of  masked  balls.  Yet  there  are  many  such  occa- 
sions on  which  his  genius  does  not  desert  him.  Balfour  of 
Burley  may  rub  shoulders  against  genuine  Covenanters  and 
west-country  Whigs  without  betraying  his  fictitious  origin. 
The  Master  of  Ravenswood  attitudinises  a  little  too  much 
with  his  Spanish  cloak  and  his  slouched  hat ;  but  we  feel 
really  sorry  for  him  when  he  disappears  in  the  Kelpie's  Flow. 
And  when  Scott  has  to  do  with  his  own  peasants,  with  the 
thoroughbred  Presbyterian  Scotchman,  he  can  bring  intense 
tragic  interest  from  his  homely  materials.       Douce  Davie 


I50  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

Deans,  distracted  between  his  religious  principles  and  his 
desire  of  saving  his  daughter's  life,  and  seeking  relief  even  in 
the  midst  of  his  agonies  by  that  admirable  burst  of  spiritual 
pride  :   '  Though  I  will  neither  exalt  myself  nor  pull  down 
others,  I  wish  that  every  man  and  woman  in  this  land  had 
kept  the  true  testimony  and  the  middle  and  straight  path, 
as  it  were  on  the  ridge  of  a  hill,  where  wind  and  water  steals, 
avoiding    right-hand    snare   and   extremes,    and   left-hand 
way-slidings,  as  well  as  Johnny  Dodds  of  Farthy's  acre  and 
ae  man  mair  that  shall  be  nameless ' — Davie  is  as  admirable 
a  figure  as  ever  appeared  in  fiction.     It  is  a  pity  that  he  was 
mixed  up  with  the  conventional  madwoman,  Madge  Wild- 
fire, and  that  a  story,  most  touching  in  its  native  simplicity, 
was  twisted  and  tortured  into  needless  intricacy.     The  re- 
ligious exaltation  of  Balfour,  or  the  religious  pigheadedness 
of  Davie  Deans,  are  indeed  given  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  kindly  humourist  rather  than  of  one  who  can  fully  sym- 
pathise with  the  sublimity  of  an  intense  faith  in  a  homely 
exterior.     And  though  many  good  judges  hold  the  '  Bride 
of  Lammermoor '  to  be  Scott's  best  performance,  in  virtue 
of  the  loftier  passions  which  animate  the  chief  actors  in  the 
tragedy,  we  are,  after  all,  called  upon  to  sympathise  as  much 
with  the  gentleman  of  good  family  who  can't  ask  his  friends 
to  dinner  without  an  unworthy  device  to  hide  his  poverty, 
as  with  the  passionate  lover  whose  mistress  has  her  heart 
broken.     In  truth,  this  criticism  as  to  the  absence  of  high 
passion  reminds  us  again  that  Scott  was  a  thorough  Scots- 
man, and— for  it  is  necessary,  even  now,  to  avoid  the  queer 
misconception  which  confounds  together  the  most  distinct 
races— a  thorough  Saxon.     He  belonged,  that  is,  to  the  race 
which  lias  in  the  most  eminent  degree  the  typical  English 
qualities.     Especially  his  intellect  had  a  strong  substratum 


S/J^    WALTER  SCOTT  151 

of  downright  dogged  common  sense  ;  his  religion,  one  may 
conjecture,  was  pretty  much  that  of  all  men  of  sense  in  his 
time.  It  was  that  of  the  society  which  had  produced  and 
been  influenced  by  Hume  and  Adam  Smith  ;  which  had 
dropped  its  old  dogmas  without  becoming  openly  sceptical, 
but  which  emphatically  took  '  common  sense  '  for  the  motto 
of  its  philosophy.  It  was  equally  afraid  of  bigotry  and  scep- 
ticism and  had  manufactured  a  creed  out  of  decent  compro- 
mises which  served  well  enough  for  ordinary  purposes.  Even 
Hume,  a  sceptic  in  theory,  was  a  Tory  and  a  Scottish  patriot 
in  politics.  Scott,  who  cared  nothing  for  abstract  philo- 
sophy, did  not  bother  himself  to  form  any  definite  system  of 
opinions ;  he  shared  Hume's  political  prejudices  without 
inquiring  into  his  philosophy.  He  thoroughly  detested  the 
dogmatism  of  the  John  Knox  variety,  and  considered  the 
Episcopal  Church  to  offer  the  religion  for  a  gentleman.  But 
his  common  sense  in  such  matters  was  chiefly  shown  by  not 
asking  awkward  questions  and  adopting  the  creed  which  was 
most  to  his  taste  without  committing  himself  to  any  strong 
persuasion  as  to  abstract  truth.  He  would,  on  the  whole, 
leave  such  matters  alone,  an  attitude  of  mind  which  was  not 
to  Carlyle's  taste.  In  the  purely  artistic  direction,  this 
common  sense  is  partly  responsible  for  the  defect  which  has 
been  so  often  noticed  in  Scott's  heroes.  Your  genuine  Scot 
is  indeed  as  capable  of  intense  passion  as  any  human  being 
in  the  world.  Burns  is  proof  enough  of  the  fact  if  anyone 
doubted  it.  But  Scott  was  a  man  of  more  massive  and  less 
impulsive  character.  If  he  had  strong  passions,  they  were 
ruled  by  his  common  sense  ;  he  kept  them  well  in  hand,  and 
did  not  write  till  the  period  of  youthful  effervescence  was 
over.  His  heroes  always  seem  to  be  described  from  the 
point  of  view  of  a  man  old  enough  to  see  the  folly  of  youth- 


152  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

ful  passion  or  too  old  fully  to  sympathise  with  it.  They  are 
chiefly  remarkable  for  a  punctilious  pride  which  gives  their 
creator  some  difficulty  in  keeping  them  out  of  superfluous 
duels.  When  they  fall  in  love  they  always  seem  to  feel 
themselves  as  Lovel  felt  himself  in  the  '  Antiquary,'  under 
the  eye  of  Jonathan  Oldbuck,  who  was  himself  once  in  love 
but  has  come  to  see  that  he  was  a  fool  for  his  pains.  Cer- 
tainly, somehow  or  other,  they  are  apt  to  be  terribly  wooden. 
Cranstoun  in  the  '  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,'  Graeme  in  the 
'  Lady  of  the  Lake,'  or  Wilton  in  '  Marmion,'  are  all  unspeak- 
able bores.  Waverley  himself,  and  Lovel  in  the  '  Antiquary,' 
and  Vanbeest  Brown  in  '  Guy  Mannering,'  and  Harry  Mor- 
ton in  '  Old  Mortality,'  and,  in  short,  the  whole  series  of 
Scott's  pattern  young  men,  are  all  chips  of  the  same  block. 
They  can  all  run,  and  ride,  and  fight,  and  make  pretty 
speeches,  and  express  the  most  becoming  sentiments  ;  but 
somehow  they  all  partake  of  one  fault,  the  same  which  was 
charged  against  the  otherwise  incomparable  horse,  namely, 
that  they  are  dead.  And  we  must  confess  that  this  is  a  con- 
siderable drawback  from  Scott's  novels.  To  take  the  pas- 
sion out  of  a  novel  is  something  like  taking  the  sunlight  out 
of  a  landscape  ;  and  to  condemn  all  the  heroes  to  be  utterly 
commonplace  is  to  remove  the  centre  of  interest  in  a  man- 
ner detrimental  to  the  best  intents  of  the  story.  When 
Thackeray  endeavoured  to  restore  Rebecca  to  her  rightful 
place  in  '  Ivanhoe,'  he  was  only  doing  what  is  more  or  less 
desirable  in  all  the  series.  We  long  to  dismount  these  insipid 
creatures  from  the  pride  of  place,  and  to  supplant  them  by  some 
of  the  admirable  characters  who  are  doomed  to  play  subsidiary 
parts.  There  is,  however,  another  reason  for  this  weakness 
which  seems  to  be  overlooked  by  many  of  Scott's  critics.  We 
are  often  referred  to  Scott  as  a  master  of  pure  and  what 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT  153 

is  called  '  objective '  story-telling.     Certainly  I  don't  deny 
that  Scott  could  be  an  admirable  story-teller  :    '  Ivanhoe ' 
and   the    'Bride  of  Lammermoor'  would   be  sufificient   to 
convict  me  of  error  if  I  did.     But  as  mere  stories,  many  of 
his  novels— and  moreover  his  masterpieces— are  not  only 
faulty,  but  distinctly  bad.     Taking  him  purely  and  simply 
from  that  point  of  view,  he  is  very  inferior,  for  example,  to 
Alexandre  Dumas.     You  cannot  follow  the  thread  of  most  of 
his  narratives  with  any  particular  interest  in  the  fate  of  the 
chief  actors.     In  the  '  Introductory  Epistle  '  prefixed  to  the 
'  Fortunes  of  Nigel '  Scott  himself  gives  a  very  interesting 
account  of  his  method.     He  has  often,  he  says  in  answer  to 
an  imaginary   critic,  begun  by  laying  down  a  plan  of  his 
work  and  tried  to  construct  an  ideal  story,  evolving  itself 
by  due  degrees  and  ending  by  a  proper  catastrophe.     But 
a  demon  seats  himself  on    his    pen,  and   leads   it   astray. 
Characters  expand ;    incidents  multiply  ;    the  story  Hngers 
while   the   materials    increase  ;    Bailie    Jarvie    or   Dugald 
Dalgetty  leads  him  astray,  and  he  goes  many  a  weary  mile 
from  the  regular  road  and  has  to  leap  hedge  and  ditch  to 
get  back.        If  he  resists  the   temptation,  his  imagination 
flags  and  he  becomes  prosy  and  dull.     No  one  can  read  his 
best  novels  without   seeing  the  truth   of  this   description. 
'Waverley  '  made  an  immense  success  as  a  description  of  new 
scenes  and  social  conditions  :  the  story  of  Waverley  himself 
is  the  least  interesting  part  of  the  book.     Everybody  who 
has  read  '  Guy  Mannering '  remembers    Dandie    Dinmont 
and  Meg  Merrilies  and  Pleydell  and  Dominie  Sampson  ; 
but  how  many  people  could  explain  the  ostensible  story — the 
love  affair  of  Vanbeest  Brown  and  Julia  Mannering?     We 
can  see  how  Scott  put  the  story  together.     He  was  pouring 
out    the    most  vivid  and    interesting  recollections   of  the 


154  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

borderers  whom  he  knew  so  well,  of  the  old  Scottish  gentry 
and  smugglers  and  peasants,  and  the  old-fashioned  lawyers 
who  played  high  jinks  in  the  wynds  of  Edinburgh.  No 
more  delightful  collection  of  portraits  could  be  brought 
together.  But  he  had  to  get  a  story  as  a  thread.  He 
started  with  the  legend  about  an  astrological  prediction  told 
of  Dryden  and  one  of  his  sons,  and  mixed  it  up  with  the 
Annesley  case,  where  a  claimant  turned  up  with  more 
plausibility  than  the  notorious  Orton.  This  introduced  of 
necessity  an  impossible  and  conventional  bit  of  lovemaking 
and  a  recognition  of  a  long-lost  heir.  He  is  full  of  long- 
lost  heirs.  Equally  conventional  and  impossible  stories  are 
introduced  in  the  'Antiquary,' the  '  Heart  of  Midlothian,' 
and  the  '  Legend  of  Montrose '  and  elsewhere.  Nobody 
cares  about  them,  and  the  characters  which  ostensibly  play 
the  chief  part  serve  merely  to  introduce  us  to  the  sub- 
ordinate actors.  '  Waverley,'  for  example,  gives  a  description 
drawn  with  unsurpassable  spirit  of  the  state  of  the  Highland 
clans  in  1745  ;  and  poor  Waverley's  love  affair  passes 
altogether  out  of  sight  during  the  greatest  and  most  interest- 
ing part  of  the  narrative.  When  Moore  said  of  the  poems 
that  Scott  intended  to  illustrate  all  the  gentlemen's  seats 
between  Edinburgh  and  London,  he  was  not  altogether 
wide  of  the  mark.  The  novels  are  all  illustrations— not  of 
'  gentlemen's  seats '  indeed,  but  of  various  social  states  ;  and 
it  is  only  by  a  kind  of  happy  accident  when  this  interest  in 
the  surroundings  does  not  put  the  chief  characters  out  of 
focus.  Nobody  has  created  a  greater  number  of  admirable 
types,  but  when  we  run  over  their  names  we  perceive  that 
in  most  cases  they  are  the  secondary  performers  who  are 
ousting  the  nominal  heroes  and  heroines  from  their  places. 
Dugald  Dalgetty,  for  example,  becomes  so  attractive  that  he 


S/J?    WALTER  SCOTT  155 

squeezes  all  the  other  actors  into  a  mere  corner  of  the 
canvas.  Perhaps  nothing  more  is  necessary  to  explain  why 
Scott  failed  as  a  dramatist.  With  him,  Hamlet  would  have 
been  a  mere  peg  to  show  us  how  Rosencrantz  and 
Guildenstern  amused  themselves  at  the  royal  drinking 
parties. 

For  this  reason,  again,  Scott  bestows  an  apparently  dis- 
proportionate amount  of  imagination  upon  the  mere  scene- 
painting,  the  external  trappings,  the  clothes,  or  dwelling- 
places  of  his  performers.  A  traveller  into  a  strange 
country  naturally  gives  us  the  external  peculiarities  which 
strike  him.  Scott  has  to  tell  us  what  '  completed  the 
costume '  of  his  Highland  chiefs  or  medieval  barons.  He 
took,  in  short,  to  that  '  buff-jerkin '  business  of  which 
Carlyle  speaks  so  contemptuously,  and  fairly  carried  away 
the  hearts  of  his  contemporaries  by  a  lavish  display  of 
mediaeval  upholstery.  Lockhart  tells  us  that  Scott  could 
not  bear  the  commonplace  daubings  of  walls  with  uniform 
coats  of  white,  blue,  and  grey.  All  the  roofs  at  Abbotsford 
'  were,  in  appearance  at  least,  of  carved  oak,  relieved  by 
coats-of-arms  duly  blazoned  at  the  intersections  of  beams, 
and  resting  on  cornices,  to  the  eye  of  the  same  material, 
but  composed  of  casts  in  plaster  of  Paris,  after  the  foliage, 
the  flowers,  the  grotesque  monsters  and  dwarfs,  and  some- 
times the  beautiful  heads  of  nuns  and  confessors,  on  which 
he  had  doated  from  infancy  among  the  cloisters  of  Melrose 
Abbey.'  The  plaster  looks  as  well  as  the  carved  oak  for  a 
time  ;  but  the  day  speedily  comes  when  the  sham  crumbles 
into  ashes,  and  Scott's  knights  and  nobles,  like  his  carved 
cornices,  became  dust  in  the  next  generation.  It  is  hard  to 
say  it,  and  yet  we  fear  it  must  be  admitted,  that  many  of 
those  historical  novels,  which  once  charmed  all  men,  and 


156  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

for  which  we  have  still  a  lingering  affection,  are  rapidly  con- 
verting themselves  into  mere  debris  of  plaster  of  Paris.     Sir 
F.  Palgrave  says  somewhere  that  '  historical  novels  are  mortal 
enemies  to  history,'  and  we  are  often  tempted  to  add  that 
they  are  mortal  enemies  to  fiction.    There  may  be  an  excep- 
tion or  two,  but  as  a  rule  the  task  is  simply  impracticable. 
The  novelist  is  bound  to  come  so  near  to  the  facts  that  we 
feel  the  unreality  of  his  portraits.    Either  the  novel  becomes 
pure  cram,  a  dictionary  of  antiquities  dissolved  in  a  thin 
solution  of  romance,  or,  which  is  generally  more  refreshing, 
it  takes  leave  of  accuracy  altogether  and  simply  takes  the 
plot  and  the  costume  from  history,  but  allows  us  to  feel 
that  genuine  moderns  are  masquerading  in  the  dress  of  a 
bygone  century.     Even  in  the  last  case,  it  generally  results 
in  a  kind  of  dance  in  fetters  and  a  comparative  breakdown 
under  self-imposed  obligations.    '  Ivanhoe '  and  '  Kenilworth ' 
and  '  Quentin  Durward,'  and  the  rest  are  of  course  audacious 
anachronisms  for  the  genuine  historian.    Scott  was  imposed 
upon  by  his  own  fancy.     He  was  probably  not  aware  that 
his  Balfour  of  Burley  was  real  flesh  and   blood,  because 
painted   from    real   people   round   him,  while  his    Claver- 
house  is  made  chiefly  of  plumes  and  jackboots.      Scott  is 
chiefly  responsible  for  the  odd  perversion  of  facts,  which 
reached  its  height,  as  Macaulay  remarks,  in  the  marvellous 
performance   of  our   venerated  ruler,    George    IV.     That 
monarch,  he  observes,  '  thought  that  he  could  not  give  a 
more  striking  proof  of  his  respect  for  the  usages  which  had 
prevailed  in  Scotland  before  the  Union  than  by  disguising 
himself  in  what,  before  the  Union,  was  considered  by  nine 
Scotchmen  out  of  ten  as  the  dress  of  a  thief.'    The  passage 
recalls  the  too  familiar  anecdote  about  Scott  and  the  wine- 
glass consecrated  by  the  sacred  lips  of  his  king.     At  one  of 


5/7?    WALTER  SCOTT  157 

the  portrait  exhibitions  in  South  Kensington  was  hung  up 
a  representation  of  George  IV.,  with  the  body  of  a  stalwart 
highlander  in  full  costume,  some  seven  or  eight  feet  high  ; 
the  face  formed  from  the  red  puffy  cheeks  developed  by  in- 
numerable bottles  of  port  and  burgundy  at  Carlton  House  ; 
and  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  bonnet  with  waving  plumes. 
Scott   was   chiefly    responsible   for   disguising  that  elderly 
London  debauchee  in  the  costume  of  a  wild  Gaelic  cattle- 
stealer,  and  was  apparently  insensible  of  the  gross  absurdity. 
We  are  told  that  an  air  of  burlesque  was  thrown  over  the 
proceedings    at    Holyrood    by   the   apparition    of  a   true 
London  alderman  in  the  same  costume  as  his  master.     An 
alderman  who  could  burlesque  such  a  monarch  must  indeed 
have  been  a  credit  to  his  turtle-soup.     Let  us  pass  by  with 
a  brief  lamentation  that  so  great  and  good  a  man  laid  him- 
self open  to  Carlyle's  charge  of  sham  worship.      We  have 
lost  our  love  of  buff  jerkins  and  other  scraps  from  mediaeval 
museums,    and   Scott   is   suffering   from    having   preferred 
working  in  stucco  to  carving  in  marble.     We  are  perhaps 
inclined  to  saddle  Scott  unconsciously  with  the  sins  of  a 
later   generation.       Borrow,    in    his  delightful  '  Lavengro,' 
meets  a  kind  of  Jesuit  in  disguise  in  that  sequestered  dell 
where  he  beats  '  the  Blazing  Tinman.'      The  Jesuit,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  confides  to  him  that  Scott  was  a  tool  of 
that  diabolical  conspiracy  which  has  infected  our  old  Enghsh 
Protestantism   with  the  poison  of  modern  Popery.     And, 
though  the  evil  may  be  traced  further  back,  and  was  due  to 
more  general  causes  than  the  influence  of  any  one  writer, 
Scott  was  clearly  responsible  in  his  degree  for  certain  recent 
phenomena.     The  buff  jerkin  became  the  lineal  ancestor  of 
various   copes,    stoles,    and   chasubles   which  stink  in  the 
nostrils  of  honest  dissenters.     Our  modern  revivalists  pro- 


158  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

fess  to  despise  the  flimsiness  of  the  first  attempts  in  this 
direction.    They  laugh  at  the  carpenter's  Gothic  of  Abbots- 
ford  or  Strawberry  Hill,  and  do  not  ask  themselves  how 
their  own  more  elaborate  blundering  will  look  in  the  eyes 
of  a   future  generation.     What  will  our  posterity  think  of 
our  masquerading  in  old  clothes  ?     Will  they  want  a  new 
Cromwell  to  sweep  away  nineteenth-century  shams,  as  his 
ancestors  smashed  mediaeval  ruins,  or  will  they,  as  we  may 
rather  hope,  be  content  to  let  our  pretentious  rubbish  find 
its  natural  road  to  ruin  ?     One  thing  is  pretty  certain,  and 
in    its    way   comforting  ;    that,  however   far   the   rage   for 
revivalism  may  be  pushed,  nobody  will  ever  want  to  revive 
the  nineteenth  century.      But  for  Scott,  in  spite  of  his  com- 
plicity in  this  wearisome  process,  there  is  something  still  to 
be  said.     '  Ivanhoe  '  cannot  be  given  up.     The  vivacity  of 
the  description— the  delight  with  which  Scott  throws  him- 
self into   the   pursuit   of  his   knicknacks  and  antiquarian 
rubbish,    has  something  contagious  about  it.       '  Ivanhoe,' 
let  it  be  granted,  is  no  longer  a  work  for  men,  but  it  still 
is,  or  still  ought  to  be,  delightful  reading  for  boys.      The 
ordinary  boy,   indeed,  when  he  reads  anything,  seems  to 
choose  descriptions  of  the  cricket-matches  and  boat-races  in 
which  his  soul  most  dehghts.     But  there  must  still  be  some 
unsophisticated  youths  who  can  relish  '  Robinson  Crusoe  ' 
and  the  '  Arabian  Nights  '  and  other  favourites  of  our  own 
childhood,  and  such  at  least  should  pore  over  the  '  Gentle 
and  free  passage  of  arms  at  Ashby,'  admire  those  incredible 
feats  with  the  long-bow  which  would  have  enabled  Robin 
Hood  to  meet  successfully  a  modern  volunteer  armed  with 
the  Martini-Henry,  and  follow  the  terrific  head-breaking  of 
Front-de-Boeuf,  Bois-Guilbert,  the  holy  clerk  of  Copmans- 
hurst,  and  the  Noir  Faineant,  even  to  the  time  when,  for  no 


SIR    WALTER   SCOl  T  159 

particular  reason   beyond  the  exigencies  of  the  story,  the 
Templar  suddenly  falls  from  his  horse,  and  is  discovered,  to 
our  no  small  surprise,  to  be  '  unscathed  by  the  lance  of  the 
enemy,'  and  to  have  died  a  victim  to  the  violence  of  his  own 
contending  passions.     If  '  Ivanhoe '  has  been  exploded  by 
Professor  Freeman,  it  did  good  work  in  its  day.     If  it  were 
possible  for  a  critic  to  weigh  the  merits  of  a  great  man  in 
a  balance,  and  to  decide  precisely  how  far  his  excellences 
exceed  his  defects,  we  should  have  to  set  off  Scott's  real 
services  to  the  spread  of  a  genuine  historical  spirit  against 
the  encouragement  which  he  afforded  to  its  bastard  counter- 
feit.    To  enable  us  rightly  to  appreciate  our  forefathers,  to 
recognise  that  they  were  living  men,  and  to  feel  our  close 
connection  with  them,  is  to  put  a  vivid  imagination  to  one 
of  its  worthiest  uses.      It  was  perhaps  inevitable  that  we 
should  learn  to  appreciate  our  ancestors  by  paying  them 
the   doubtful   compliment   of  external  mimicry  ;  and  that 
only  by  slow  degrees,  and  at  the  price  of  much  humiliating 
experience,  should  we  learn  the  simple  lesson  that  a  childish 
adult  has  not  the  grace  of  childhood.     Even  in  his  errors, 
however,  Scott  had  the  merit  of  unconsciousness,  w^hich  is 
fast  disappearing  from  our  more  elaborate  affectations  ;  and, 
therefore,  though   we   regret,    we  are  not  irritated   by  his 
weakness  and  deficiency  in  true  insight.     He  really  enjoys 
his  playthings  too  naively  for  the  pleasure  not  to  be  a  little 
contagious,  when  we  can  descend  from  our  critical  dignity. 
In  his  later  work,  indeed,  the  effort  becomes  truly  painful, 
tending  more  to  the  provocation  of  sadness  than  of  anger. 
But  that  work  is  best   forgotten   except  as  an   occasional 
warning. 

Scott,    however,    understood,    and   nobody   has   better 
illustrated  by  example,  the  true  mode  of  connecting  past 


i6o  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

and  present.  Mr.  Palgrave,  whose  recognition  of  the  charm 
of  Scott's  lyrics  merits  our  gratitude,  observes  in  the  notes  to 
the  '  Golden  Treasury '  that  the  songs  about  Brignall  banks 
and  Rosabelle  exemplify  '  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  Scott 
employs  proper  names  ; '  nor,  he  adds,  '  is  there  a  surer 
sign  of  high  poetical  genius.'  The  last  remark  might 
possibly  be  disputed  ;  if  Milton  possessed  the  same  talent, 
so  did  Lord  Macaulay,  whose  ballads,  admirable  as  they 
are,  are  not  first-rate  poetry  \  but  the  conclusion  to  which 
the  remark  points  is  one  which  is  illustrated  by  each  of 
these  cases.  The  secret  of  the  power  is  simply  this,  that  a 
man  whose  mind  is  full  of  historical  associations  somehow 
communicates  to  us  something  of  the  sentiment  which  they 
awake  in  himself.  Scott,  as  all  who  saw  him  tell  us,  could 
never  see  an  old  tower,  or  a  bank,  or  a  rush  of  a  stream 
without  instantly  recalling  a  boundless  collection  of  appro- 
priate anecdotes.  He  might  be  quoted  as  a  case  in  point 
by  those  who  would  explain  all  poetical  imagination  by  the 
power  of  associating  ideas.  He  is  the  poet  of  association. 
A  proper  name  acts  upon  him  like  a  charm.  It  calls  up  the 
past  days,  the  heroes  of  the  '41,  or  the  skirmish  of  Drumclog, 
or  the  old  Covenanting  times,  by  a  spontaneous  and  in- 
explicable magic.  When  the  barest  natural  object  is  taken 
into  his  imagination,  all  manner  of  past  fancies  and  legends 
crystallise  around  it  at  once. 

Though  it  is  more  difficult  to  explain  how  the  same  glow 
which  ennobled  them  to  him  is  conveyed  to  his  readers,  the 
process  somehow  takes  place.  We  catch  the  enthusiasm. 
A  word,  which  strikes  us  as  a  bare  abstraction  in  the  report 
of  the  Censor  General,  say,  or  in  a  collection  of  poor  law 
returns,  gains  an  entirely  new  significance  when  he  touches 
it  in  the  most  casual  manner.     A  kind  of  mellowing  atmo- 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT  i6i 

sphere  surrounds  all  objects  in  his  pages,  and  tinges  them  with 
poetical  hues.  Even  the  Scottish  dialect,  repulsive  to  some 
ignorant  Southrons,  becomes  musical  to  his  true  admirers. 
In  this  power  lies  one  secret  of  Scott's  most  successful 
writing.  Thus,  for  example,  I  often  fancy  that  the  second 
title  of  '  Waverley  ' — '  'Tis  Sixty  Years  Since ' — indicates 
precisely  the  distance  of  time  at  which  a  romantic  novelist 
should  place  himself  from  his  creations.  They  are  just  far 
enough  from  us  to  have  acquired  a  certain  picturesque 
colouring,  which  conceals  the  vulgarity,  and  yet  leaves  them 
living  and  intelligible  beings.  His  best  stories  might  be  all 
described  as  '  Tales  of  a  Grandfather.'  They  have  the 
charm  of  anecdotes  told  to  the  narrator  by  some  old  man 
who  had  himself  been  part  of  what  he  describes.  Scott's 
best  novels  depend,  for  their  deep  interest,  upon  the  scenery 
and  society  with  which  he  had  been  familiar  in  his  early 
days,  more  or  less  harmonised  by  removal  to  what  we  may 
call,  in  a  different  sense  from  the  common  one,  the 
twilight  of  history  ;  that  period,  namely,  from  which  the 
broad  glare  of  the  present  has  departed,  and  which  we  can 
yet  dimly  observe  without  making  use  of  the  dark  lantern  of 
ancient  historians,  and  accepting  the  guidance  of  Dryasdust. 
Dandie  Dinmont,  though  a  contemporary  of  Scott's  youth, 
represented  a  fast  perishing  phase  of  society  ;  and  Balfour 
of  Burley,  though  his  day  was  past,  had  yet  left  his  mantle 
with  many  spiritual  descendants  who  were  scarcely  less 
familiar.  Between  the  times  so  fixed  Scott  seems  to  exhibit 
his  genuine  power ;  and  within  these  limits  we  should  find 
it  hard  to  name  any  second,  or  indeed  any  third. 

Indeed,  when  we  have  gone  as  far  as  we  please  in  de- 
nouncing shams,  ridiculing  men  in  buff-jerkins,  and  the 
whole  Wardour  Street  business  of  gimcrack  and  Brumma- 

VOL.  I.  M 


1 62  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

gem  antiquities,  it  still  remains  true  that  Scott's  great  service 
was  what  we  may  call  the  vivification  of  history.  He  made 
us  feel,  it  is  generally  said,  as  no  one  had  ever  made  us  feel 
before,  that  the  men  of  the  past  were  once  real  human 
beings  ;  and  I  can  agree  if  I  am  permitted  to  make  a  cer- 
tain distinction.  His  best  service,  I  should  say,  was  not  so 
much  in  showing  us  the  past  as  it  was  when  it  was  present ; 
but  in  showing  us  the  past  as  it  is  really  still  present.  His 
knights  and  crusaders  and  feudal  nobles  are  after  all  unreal, 
and  the  best  critics  felt  even  in  his  own  day  that  his  greatest 
triumphs  were  in  describing  the  Scottish  peasantry  of  his 
time.  Dandie  Dinmont  and  Jeanie  Deans  and  their  like 
are  better  than  many  Front  De  Bceufs  and  Robin  Hoods. 
It  is  in  deahng  with  his  own  contemporaries  that  he  really 
shows  the  imaginative  insight  which  entitles  him  to  be 
called  a  great  creator  as  well  as  an  amusing  storyteller. 
But  this,  rightly  stated,  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  previous 
statement.  For  the  special  characteristic  of  Scott  as 
distinguished  from  his  predecessors  is  precisely  his  clear 
perception  that  the  characters  whom  he  loved  so  well  and 
described  so  vividly  were  the  products  of  a  long  historical 
evolution.  His  patriotism  was  the  love  of  a  country  in 
which  everything  had  obvious  roots  in  its  previous  history. 
The  stout  farmer  Dinmont  was  the  descendant  of  the  old 
borderers  ;  the  Deanses  were  survivals  from  the  days  of 
the  Covenanters  or  of  John  Knox  ;  every  peculiarity  upon 
which  he  delighted  to  dwell  was  invested  with  all  the  charm 
of  descent  from  a  long  and  picturesque  history.  When 
Fielding  describes  the  squires  or  lawyers  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  he  says  nothing  to  show  that  he  was  even  aware 
of  the  existence  of  a  seventeenth,  or  still  less  of  a 
sixteenth  century.     Scott  can  describe  no  character  without 


5//?    WALTER   SCOTT  163 

assigning  to  it  its  place  in  the  social  organism  which  has  been 
growing  up  since  the  earliest  dawn  of  history.  This  was,  of 
course,  no  accident.  He  came  at  the  time  when  the  little 
provincial  centres  were  just  feeling  the  first  invasion  of  the 
great  movements  from  without.  Edinburgh,  whether  quite 
comparable  to  Athens  or  not,  had  been  for  two  or  three  gene- 
rations a  remarkable  centre  of  intellectual  cultivation. 
Hume  and  Adam  Smith  were  only  the  most  conspicuous 
members  of  a  society  which  monopolised  pretty  well  all  the 
philosophy  which  existed  in  the  island  and  a  great  deal  of  the 
history  and  criticism.  In  Scott's  time  the  patriotic  feeling 
which  had  been  a  blind  instinct  was  becoming  more  or  less 
self-conscious.  The  literary  society  in  which  Scott  was 
leader  of  the  Tories,  and  Jeffrey  of  the  Whigs,  included  a 
large  proportion  of  the  best  intellect  of  the  time  and  was 
sufficiently  in  contact  with  the  outside  world  to  be  conscious 
of  its  own  characteristics.  When  the  crash  of  the  French 
Revolution  came  in  Scott's  youth,  Burke  denounced  its 
a  priori  abstract  reasonings  in  the  name  of  prescription.  A 
traditional  order  and  belief  were  essential,  as  he  urged,  to 
the  well-being  of  every  human  society.  What  Scott  did 
afterwards  was  precisely  to  show  by  concrete  instances, 
most  vividly  depicted,  the  value  and  interest  of  a  natural 
body  of  traditions.  Like  many  other  of  his  ablest  contem- 
poraries, he  saw  with  alarm  the  great  movement,  of  which 
the  French  Revolution  was  the  obvious  embodiment,  sweep- 
ing away  all  manner  of  local  traditions  and  threatening 
to  engulf  the  little  society  which  still  retained  its  specific 
character  in  Scotland.  He  was  stirred,  too,  in  his  whole 
nature  when  any  sacrilegious  reformer  threatened  to  sweep 
away  any  part  of  the  true  old  Scottish  system.  And  this  is, 
in  fact,  the  moral  implicitly  involved  in  Scott's  best  work. 

M  2 


i64  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

Take  the  beggar,  for  example,  Edie  Ochiltree,  the  old  '  blue- 
gown.'  Beggars,  you  say,  are  a  nuisance  and  would  be  sen- 
tenced to  starvation  by  Mr.  Malthus  in  the  name  of  an 
abstract  principle  of  population.  But  look,  says  Scott,  at 
the  old-fashioned  beggar  as  he  really  was.  He  had  his 
place  in  society  ;  he  was  the  depository  of  the  legends  of 
the  whole  country-side  :  chatting  with  the  lairds,  the  confi- 
dential friend  of  fishermen,  peasants,  and  farmers ;  the 
oracle  in  all  sports  and  ruler  of  village  feasts ;  repaying 
in  friendly  offices  far  more  than  the  value  of  the  alms 
which  he  took  as  a  right ;  a  respecter  of  old  privileges, 
because  he  had  privileges  himself ;  and  ready  when  the 
French  came  to  take  his  part  in  fighting  for  the  old 
country.  There  can  be  no  fear  for  a  country,  says  Scott, 
where  even  the  beggar  is  as  ready  to  take  up  arms  as 
the  noble.  The  bluegown,  in  short,  is  no  waif  and  stray, 
no  product  of  social  corruption,  or  mere  obnoxious  parasite, 
but  a  genuine  member  of  the  fabric,  who  could  respect 
himself  and  scorn  servility  as  much  as  the  highest  members 
of  the  social  hierarchy.  Scott,  as  Lockhart  tells  us,  was 
most  grievously  wounded  by  the  insults  of  the  Radical  mob 
in  Selkirk,  who  cried  '  Burke  Sir  Walter  ! '  in  the  place  where 
all  men  had  loved  and  honoured  him.  It  was  the  meeting 
of  the  old  and  new,  and  the  revelation  to  Scott  in  brutal 
terms  of  the  new  spirit  which  was  destroying  all  the  old 
social  ties.  Scott  and  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  and 
Southey  and  their  like  saw  in  fact  the  approach  of  that 
industrial  revolution,  as  we  call  it  now,  which  for  good  or 
evil  has  been  ever  since  developing.  The  Radicals  de- 
nounced them  as  mere  sentimentalists  ;  the  solid  Whigs, 
who  fancied  that  the  revolution  was  never  to  get  beyond  the 
Reform  Bill  of  1832,  laughed  at  them  as  mere  obstructives; 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT  165 

by  us,  who,  whatever  our  opinions,  speak  with  the  advan- 
tage of  later  experience,  it  must  be  admitted  that  such 
Conservatism  had  its  justification,  and  that  good  and  far- 
seeing  men  might  well  look  with  alarm  at  changes  whose 
far-reaching  consequences  cannot  yet  be  estimated.  Scott, 
meanwhile,  is  the  incomparable  painter  of  the  sturdy  race 
which  he  loved  so  well — a  race  high-spirited,  loyal  to  its 
principles,  surpassingly  energetic,  full  of  strong  affections 
and  manl^spirits,  if  crabbed,  bigoted,  and  capable  of  queer 
perversity  and  narrow  self-conceit.  Nor,  if  we  differ  from 
his  opinions,  can  anyone  who  desires  to  take  a  reasonable 
view  of  history  doubt  the  interest  and  value  of  the  con- 
ceptions involved.  Scott  was  really  the  first  imaginative 
observer  who  saw  distinctly  how  the  national  type  of  char- 
acter is  the  product  of  past  history,  and  embodies  all  the 
great  social  forces  by  which  it  has  slowly  shaped  itself. 
That  is  the  new  element  in  his  portraiture  of  human  life  ; 
and  we  may  pardon  him  if  he  set  rather  too  high  a  value 
upon  the  picturesque  elements  which  he  had  been  the  first 
to  recognise.  One  of  the  acutest  of  recent  writers  upon 
politics,  the  late  Mr.  Bagehot,  has  insisted  upon  the  immense 
value  of  what  he  called  a  '  solid  cake  of  customs,'  and  the 
thought  is  more  or  less  familiar  to  every  writer  of  the  evo- 
lutionist way  of  thinking.  Scott,  without  any  philosophy  to 
speak  of,  political  or  otherwise,  saw  and  recognised  intui- 
tively a  typical  instance.  He  saw  how  much  the  social 
fabric  had  been  woven  out  of  ancient  tradition  ;  and  he 
made  others  see  it  more  clearly  than  could  be  done  by  any 
abstract  reasoner. 

When  naturalists  wish  to  preserve  a  skeleton,  they  bury 
an  animal  in  an  ant-hill  and  dig  him  up  after  many  days 
with  all  the  perishable  matter  fairly  eaten  away.     That  is 


1 66  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

the   process   which  great   men  have  to   undergo.     A  vast 
multitude  of  insignificant,  unknown,  and  unconscious  critics 
destroy  what  has  no  genuine  power  of  resistance,  and  leave 
the  remainder  for  posterity.     Much  disappears  in  every  case, 
and  it  is  a  question,  perhaps,  whether  the  firmer  parts  of 
Scott's  reputation  will  be  sufficiently  coherent  to  resist  after 
the  removal  of  the  rubbish.     We  must  admit  that  even  his 
best  work  is  of  more  or  less  mixed  value,  and  that  the  test 
will  be  a  severe  one.     Yet  we  hope,  not  only  for  reasons 
already  suggested,  but  for  one  which  remains  to  be  expressed. 
The  ultimate  source  of  pleasure  derivable  from  all  art  is  that 
it  brings  you  into  communication  with  the  artist.     What  you 
really  love  in  the  picture  or  the  poem  is  the  painter  or  the 
poet  whom   it   brings  into  sympathy  with  you  across  the 
gulf  of  time.     He  tells  you  what  are  the  thoughts  which 
some  fragment   of  natural   scenery,  or   some   incident   of 
human  life,   excited   in   a    mind   greatly   wiser   and   more 
perceptive  than  your  own.     A  dramatist  or  a  novelist  pro- 
fesses to  describe  different  actors  on  his  little  scene,  but  lie 
is  really  setting  forth  the  varying  phases  of  his  own  mind. 
x'\nd  so   Dandie  Dinmont,   or   the   Antiquary,  or   Balfour 
of  Burley,  is  merely  the  conductor  through  which  Scott's 
personal  magnetism  affects  our  own  natures.     And  certainly, 
whatever  faults  a  critic  may  discover  in  the  work,  it  may  be 
said  that  no  work  in  our  literature  places  us  in  communica- 
tion with  a  manlier  or  more  lovable  nature.     Scott,  indeed, 
setting  upasthelanded   proprietor   at   Abbotsford,  and 
solacing   himself  with  painted  plaster   of  Paris  instead  of 
carved   oak,  does  not  strike    us,  any  more  than    he   does 
CaHyle,  as  a  very  noble  phenomenon.     But  luckily  for  us, 
we  have  also  the  Scott  who  must  have  been  the  most  charm- 
ing of  all   conceivable  companions  ;    the   Scott   who   was 


5/7?    WALTER  SCOTT  167 

idolised  even  by  a  judicious  pig ;  the  Scott  who,  unHke  the 
irritable  race  of  literary  magnates  in  general,  never  lost  a 
friend,  and  whose  presence  diffused  an  equable  glow  of 
kindly  feeling  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  social  system  which 
gravitated  round  him.  He  was  not  precisely  brilliant ;  nobody, 
so  far  as  we  know,  who  wrote  so  many  sentences  has  left  so 
few  that  have  fixed  themselves  upon  us  as  established  com- 
monplaces ;  beyond  that  unlucky  phrase  about  '  my  name 
being  MacGregor  and  my  foot  being  on  my  native  heath  ' — 
which  is  not  a  very  admirable  sentiment — I  do  not  at  present 
remember  a  single  gem  of  this  kind.  Landor,  I  think,  said 
that  in  the  whole  of  Scott's  poetry  there  was  only  one  good 
line,  that,  namely,  in  the  poem  about  Helvellyn  referring  to 
the  dog  of  the  lost  man — 

When  the  wind  waved  his  garments,  how  oft  didst  thou  start  ! 

Scott  is  not  one  of  the  coruscating  geniuses,  throwing  out 
epigrams  at  every  turn,  and  sparkling  with  good  things. 
But  the  poetry,  which  was  first  admired  to  excess  and  then 
rejected  with  undue  contempt,  is  now  beginning  to  find  its 
due  level.  It  is  not  poetry  of  the  first  order.  It  is  not  the 
poetry  of  deep  meditation  or  of  rapt  enthusiasm.  Much 
that  was  once  admired  has  now  become  rather  offensive 
than  otherwise.  And  yet  it  has  a  charm,  which  becomes 
more  sensible  the  more  familiar  we  grow  with  it,  the  charm  of 
unaffected  and  spontaneous  love  of  nature ;  and  not  only  is 
it  perfectly  in  harmony  with  the  nature  which  Scott  loved  so 
well,  but  it  is  still  the  best  interpreter  of  the  sound  healthy 
love  of  wild  scenery.  Wordsworth,  no  doubt,  goes  deeper  ; 
and  Byron  is  more  vigorous  ;  and  Shelley  more  ethereal. 
But  it  is,  and  will  remain,  a  good  thing  lo  have  a  breath 
from  the  Cheviots  brought  straight  into  London  streets,  as 


i68  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

Scott  alone  can  do  it.  When  Washington  Irving  visited 
Scott,  they  had  an  amicable  dispute  as  to  the  scenery  : 
Irving,  as  became  an  American,  complaining  of  the  absence 
of  forests  ;  Scott  declaring  his  love  for  '  his  honest  grey  hills,' 
and  saying  that  if  he  did  not  see  the  heather  once  a  year  he 
thought  he  should  die.  Everybody  who  has  refreshed  him- 
self with  mountain  and  moor  this  summer  should  feel  how 
much  we  owe,  and  how  much  more  we  are  likely  to  owe  in 
future,  to  the  man  who  first  inoculated  us  with  his  own 
enthusiasm,  and  who  is  still  the  best  interpreter  of  the 
'honest  grey  hills.'  Scott's  poetical  faculty  may,  perhaps, 
be  more  felt  in  his  prose  than  his  verse.  The  fact  need  not 
be  decided ;  but  as  we  read  the  best  of  his  novels  we  feel 
ourselves  transported  to  the  '  distant  Cheviot's  blue  ; '  mix- 
ing with  the  sturdy  dalesman,  and  the  tough  indomitable 
Puritans  of  his  native  land  ;  for  their  sakes  we  can  forgive 
the  exploded  feudalism  and  the  faded  romance  which  he 
attempted  with  less  success  to  galvanise  into  life.  The 
pleasure  of  that  healthy  open-air  life,  with  that  manly 
companion,  is  not  likely  to  diminish  ;  and  Scott  as  its 
exponent  may  still  retain  a  hold  upon  our  affections  which 
would  have  been  long  ago  forfeited  if  he  had  depended 
entirely  on  his  romantic  nonsense.  We  are  rather  in  the 
habit  of  talking  about  a  healthy  animalism,  and  try  most 
elaborately  to  be  simple  and  manly.  When  we  turn  from 
our  modern  professors  in  that  line,  who  affect  a  total 
absence  of  affectation,  to  Scott's  Dandie  Dinmonts  and 
Edie  Ochiltrees,  we  see  the  difference  between  the  sham 
and  the  reality,  and  fancy  that  Scott  may  still  have  a  lesson 
or  two  to  preach  to  this  generation.  Those  to  come  must 
take  care  of  themselves. 


169 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

The  most  obvious  fact  about  Hawthorne  is  that  he  gave 
one  solution  of  the  problem  what  elements  of  romance  are 
discoverable  amongst  the  harsh  prose  of  this  prosaic  age. 
How  is  the  novelist  who,  by  the  inevitable  conditions  of  his 
style,  is  bound  to  come  into  the  closest  possible  contact 
with  facts,  who  has  to  give  us  the  details  of  his  hero's 
clothes,  to  tell  us  what  he  had  for  breakfast,  and  what  is  the 
state  of  the  balance  at  his  banker's— how  is  he  to  intro- 
duce the  ideal  element  which  must,  in  some  degree,  be 
present  in  all  genuine  art  ?  What  precisely  is  meant  by 
'ideal'  is  a  question  which  for  the  moment  I  pretermit. 
Anyhow  a  mere  photographic  reproduction  of  this  muddy, 
money-making,  bread-and-butter-eating  world  would  be 
intolerable.  At  the  very  lowest,  some  effort  must  be  made 
at  least  to  select  the  most  promising  materials,  and  to  strain 
out  the  coarse  or  the  simply  prosaic  ingredients.  Various 
attempts  have  been  made  to  solve  the  problem  since  De  Foe 
founded  the  modern  school  of  English  novelists,  by  giving 
us  what  is  in  one  sense  a  servile  imitation  of  genuine 
narrative,  but  which  is  redeemed  from  prose  by  the  unique 
force  of  the  situation.  De  Foe  painting  mere  everyday  pots 
and  pans  is  as  dull  as  a  modern  blue-book ;  but  when  his 
pots  and  pans  are  the  resource  by  which  a  human  being 
struggles  out  of  the  most  appalling  conceivable  '  slough  of 


I70  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

despond,'  they  become  more  poetical  than  the  vessels  from 
which  the  gods  drink  nectar  in  epic  poems.  Since  he 
wrote,  novelists  have  made  many  voyages  of  discovery,  with 
varying  success,  though  they  have  seldom  had  the  fortune 
to  touch  upon  so  marvellous  an  island  as  that  still  sacred  to 
the  immortal  Crusoe.  They  have  ventured  far  into  cloud- 
land,  and,  returning  to  terra  firma,  they  have  plunged  into 
the  trackless  and  savage-haunted  regions  which  are  girdled 
by  the  Metropolitan  Railway.  They  have  watched  the 
magic  coruscations  of  some  strange  'Aurora  Borealis'  of 
dim  romance,  or  been  content  with  the  domestic  gaslight  of 
London  streets.  Amongst  the  most  celebrated  of  all  such 
adventurers  were  the  band  which  obeyed  the  impulse  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  For  a  time  it  seemed  that  we  had  reached 
a  genuine  Eldorado  of  novelists,  where  solid  gold  was  to  be 
had  for  the  asking,  and  visions  of  more  than  earthly  beauty 
rewarded  the  labours  of  the  explorer.  Now,  alas  !  our 
opinion  is  a  good  deal  changed  ;  the  fairy  treasures  which 
Scott  brought  back  from  his  voyages  have  turned  into  dead 
leaves  according  to  custom  ;  and  the  curiosities,  upon 
which  he  set  so  extravagant  a  price,  savour  more  of 
Wardour  Street  than  of  the  genuine  mediaeval  artists.  Nay, 
there  are  scoffers,  though  I  am  not  of  them,  who  think  that 
the  tittle-tattle  which  Miss  Austen  gathered  at  the  country- 
houses  of  our  grandfathers  is  worth  more  than  the  showy 
but  rather  flimsy  eloquence  of  the  '  Ariosto  of  the  North.' 
Scott  endeavoured  at  least,  if  with  indifferent  success,  to 
invest  his  scenes  with  something  of 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or   and, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream. 

If  he  too  often  indulged  in  mere  theatrical  devices,  and  mis- 
took the  glare  of  the  footlights  for  the  sacred  glow  of  the 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  \^\ 

imagination,  he  professed,  at  least,  to  introduce  us  to  an 
ideal  world.  Later  novelists  have  generally  abandoned  the 
attempt,  and  are  content  to  reflect  our  work-a-day  life  with 
almost  servile  fidelity.  They  are  not  to  be  blamed  ;  and 
doubtless  the  very  greatest  writers  are  those  who  can  bring 
their  ideal  world  into  the  closest  possible  contact  with  our 
sympathies,  and  show  us  heroic  figures  in  modern  frock- 
coats  and  Parisian  fashions.  The  art  of  story-telling  is 
manifold,  and  its  charm  depends  greatly  upon  the  infinite 
variety  of  its  applications.  And  yet,  for  that  very  reason, 
there  are  moods  in  which  one  wishes  that  the  modern 
story-teller  would  more  frequently  lead  us  away  from  the 
commonplace  region  of  newspapers  and  railways  to  regions 
where  the  imagination  can  have  fair  play.  Hawthorne  is 
one  of  the  few  eminent  writers  to  whose  guidance  we  may 
in  such  moods  most  safely  entrust  ourselves ;  and  it  is 
tempting  to  ask,  what  was  the  secret  of  his  success? 
The  effort,  indeed,  to  investigate  the  materials  from  which 
some  rare  literary  flavour  is  extracted  is  seldom  satisfactory. 
We  are  reminded  of  the  automaton  chess-player  who  excited 
the  wonder  of  the  last  generation.  The  showman,  like  the 
critic,  laid  bare  his  inside,  and  displayed  all  the  cunning 
wheels  and  cogs  and  cranks  by  which  his  motions  were 
supposed  to  be  regulated.  Yet,  after  all,  the  true  secret 
was  that  there  was.  a  man  inside  the  machine.  Some  such 
impression  is  often  made  by  the  most  elaborate  demonstra- 
tions of  literary  anatomists.  We  have  been  mystified,  not 
really  entrusted  with  any  revelation.  And  yet,  with  this 
warning  as  to  the  probable  success  of  our  examination,  let 
us  try  to  determine  some  of  the  peculiarities  to  which 
Hawthorne  owes  this  strange  power  of  bringing  poetry  out 
of  the  most  unpromising  materials. 


172  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRA RY 

In  the  first  place,  then,  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
born  in  the  most  prosaic  of  all  countries — the  most  prosaic, 
that  is,  in  external  appearance,  and  even  in  the  superficial 
character  of  its  inhabitants.     Hawthorne  himself  reckoned 
this  as  an  advantage,  though  in  a  very  different  sense  from 
that  in  which  we  are  speaking.     It  was  as  a  patriot,  and  not 
as  an  artist,  that  he  congratulated  himself  on  his  American 
origin.     There  is  a  humorous  struggle  between  his  sense  of 
the  rawness  and  ugliness  of  his  native  land  and  the  dogged 
patriotism  befitting  a  descendant  of  the  genuine  New  Eng- 
land  Puritans.       Hawthorne   the   novelist   writhes   at   the 
discords  which  torture  his  delicate  sensibiHties  at  every  step ; 
but  instantly  Hawthorne  the  Yankee  protests  that  the  very 
faults  are  symptomatic  of  excellence.     He  is  like  a  sensitive 
mother,  unable  to  deny  that  her  awkward  hobbledehoy  of  a 
son  offends  against  the  proprieties,  but  tacitly  resolved  to 
see  proofs  of  virtues  present  or  to  come  even  in  his  clum- 
siest tricks.     He  forces  his  apologies  to  sound  like  boasting. 
'  No  author,'  he   says,  '  can  conceive   of  the  difficulty   of 
writing  a  romance  about  a  country  where  there  is  no  shadow, 
no  antiquity,  no  mystery,  no  picturesque  and  gloomy  wrong, 
nor  anything  but  a  commonplace  prosperity,  as  is  happily  ' 
(it  must  and   shall    be  happily  !)  '  the  case  with  my  dear 
native  land.     It  will  be  very  long,  I  trust,  before  romance- 
writers  may  find  congenial  and  easily-handled  themes  either 
in  the  annals  of  our  stalwart  republic,  or  in  any  character- 
istic and  probable  events  of  our  individual  lives.     Romance 
and  poetry,  ivy,  lichens,  and  wallflowers  need  ruins  to  make 
them  grow.'     If,  that  is,  I  am  forced  to  confess  that  poetry 
and  romance  are  absent,  I  will  resolutely  stick  to  it  that 
poetry  and  romance  are  bad  things,  even  though  the  love 
of  them  is  the  strongest  propensity  of  my  nature.     To  my 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  173 

thinking,  there  is  something  almost  pathetic  in  this  loyal 
self-deception  ;  and  therefore  I  have  never  been  offended 
by  certain  passages  in  '  Our  Old  Home  '  which  appear  to 
have  caused  some  irritation  in  touchy  Englishmen.  There 
is  something,  he  says  by  way  of  apology,  which  causes  an 
American  in  England  to  take  up  an  attitude  of  antagonism, 
'  These  people  think  so  loftily  of  themselves,  and  so  con- 
temptuously of  everybody  else,  that  it  requires  more 
generosity  than  I  possess  to  keep  always  in  perfectly  good 
humour  with  them.'  That  may  be  true  ;  for,  indeed,  I 
believe  that  all  Englishmen,  whether  ostentatiously  cosmo- 
politan or  ostentatiously  patriotic,  have  a  peculiar  type  of 
national  pride  at  least  as  offensive  as  that  of  Frenchmen, 
Germans,  or  Americans  ;  and,  to  a  man  of  Hawthorne's 
delicate  perceptions,  the  presence  of  that  sentiment  would 
reveal  itself  through  the  most  careful  disguises.  But  that 
which  really  caused  him  to  cherish  his  antagonism  was,  I 
suspect,  something  else  :  he  was  afraid  of  loving  us  too  well ; 
he  feared  to  be  tempted  into  a  denial  of  some  point  of  his 
patriotic  creed  ;  he  is  always  clasping  it,  as  it  were,  to  his 
bosom,  and  vowing  and  protesting  that  he  does  not  surrender 
a  single  jot  or  tittle  of  it.  Hawthorne  in  England  was  like 
a  plant  suddenly  removed  to  a  rich  soil  from  a  dry  and 
thirsty  land.  He  drinks  in  at  every  pore  the  delightful  in- 
fluences of  which  he  has  had  so  scanty  a  supply.  An  old 
cottage,  an  ivy-grown  wall,  a  country  churchyard  with  its 
quaint  epitaphs,  things  that  are  commonplace  to  most 
Englishmen  and  which  are  hateful  to  the  sanitary  inspector, 
are  refreshing  to  every  fibre  of  his  soul.  He  tries  in  vain 
to  take  the  sanitary  inspector's  view.  In  spite  of  himself  he 
is  always  falling  into  the  romantic  tone,  though  a  sense  that 
he  ought  to  be  sternly  philosophical  just  gives  a  humorous 


174  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

tinge  to  his  enthusiasm.  Charles  Lamb  could  not  have  im- 
proved his  description  of  the  old  hospital  at  Leicester,  where 
the  twelve  brethren  still  wear  the  badge  of  the  Bear  and 
Ragged  Staff.  He  lingers  round  it,  and  gossips  with  the 
brethren,  and  peeps  into  the  garden,  and  sits  by  the  caver- 
nous archway  of  the  kitchen  fireplace,  where  the  very 
atmosphere  seems  to  be  redolent  with  aphorisms  first  uttered 
by  ancient  monks,  and  jokes  derived  from  Master  Slender's 
note-book,  and  gossip  about  the  wrecks  of  the  Spanish 
Armada.  No  connoisseur  could  pore  more  lovingly  over  an 
ancient  black-letter  volume,  or  the  mellow  hues  of  some  old 
painter's  masterpiece.  He  feels  the  charm  of  our  historical 
continuity,  where  the  immemorial  past  blends  indistin- 
guishably  with  the  present,  to  the  remotest  recesses  of  his 
imagination.  But  then  the  Yankee  nature  within  him  must 
put  in  a  sharp  word  or  two  ;  he  has  to  jerk  the  bridle  for 
fear  that  his  enthusiasm  should  fairly  run  away  with  him. 
'  The  trees  and  other  objects  of  an  English  landscape,'  he 
remarks,  or,  perhaps  we  should  say,  he  complains,  '  take 
hold  of  one  by  numberless  minute  tendrils  as  it  were,  which, 
look  as  closely  as  we  choose,  we  never  find  in  an  American 
scene ; '  but  he  inserts  a  qualifying  clause,  just  by  way  of 
protest,  that  an  American  tree  would  be  more  picturesque 
if  it  had  an  equal  chance  ;  and  the  native  oak  of  which  we 
are  so  proud  is  summarily  condemned  for  '  John  Bullism  ' — 
a  mysterious  offence  common  to  many  things  in  England. 
Charlecote  Hall,  he  presently  admits,  '  is  a  most  delightful 
place.'  Even  an  American  is  tempted  to  believe  that  real 
homes  can  only  be  produced  by  '  the  slow  ingenuity  and 
labour  of  many  successive  generations,'  when  he  sees  the 
elaborate  beauty  and  perfection  of  a  well-ordered  English 
abode.     And  yet  he  persuades  himself  that  even  here  he  is 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  175 

the  victim  of  some  delusion.  The  impression  is  due  to  the 
old  man  which  still  lurks  even  in  the  polished  American, 
and  forces  him.  to  look  through  his  ancestor's  spectacles. 
The  true  theory,  it  appears,  is  that  which  Holgrave  expresses 
for  him  in  the  '  Seven  Gables,'  namely,  that  we  should  free 
ourselves  of  the  material  slavery  imposed  upon  us  by  the 
brick-and-mortar  of  past  generations,  and  learn  to  change 
our  houses  as  easily  as  our  coats.  We  ought  to  feel — only 
we  unfortunately  can't  feel — that  a  tent  or  a  wigwam  is  as 
good  as  a  house.  The  mode  in  which  Hawthorne  regards 
the  Englishman  himself  is  a  quaint  illustration  of  the  same 
theory.  An  Englishwoman,  he  admits  reluctantly  and  after 
many  protestations,  has  some  few  beauties  not  possessed  by 
her  American  sisters.  A  maiden  in  her  teens  has  '  a  certain 
charm  of  half-blossom  and  delicately  folded  leaves,  and 
tender  womanhood  shielded  by  maidenly  reserves,  with 
which,  somehow  or  other,  our  American  girls  often  fail  to 
adorn  themselves  during  an  appreciable  moment.'  But  he 
revenges  himself  for  this  concession  by  an  almost  savage 
onslaught  upon  the  full-blown  British  matron  with  her 
'awful  ponderosity  of  frame  .  .  .  massive  with  solid  beef 
and  streaky  tallow,'  and  apparently  composed  'of  steaks  and 
sirloins.'  He  laments  that  the  English  violet  should  develop 
into  such  an  over-blown  peony,  and  speculates  upon  the 
whimsical  problem,  whether  a  middle-aged  husband  should 
be  considered  as  legally  married  to  all  the  accretions  which 
have  overgrown  the  slenderness  of  his  bride.  Should  not 
the  matrimonial  bond  be  held  to  exclude  the  three-fourths 
of  the  wife  that  had  no  existence  when  the  ceremony  was 
performed  ?  A  question  not  to  be  put  without  a  shudder. 
The  fact  is,  that  Hawthorne  had  succeeded  only  too  well  in 
misleading  himself  by  a  common  fallacy.     That   pestilent 


176  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

personage,  John  Bull,  has  assumed  so  concrete  a  form  in 
our  imaginations,  with  his  top-boots  and  his  broad  shoulders 
and  vast  circumference,  and  the  emblematic  bulldog  at  his 
heels,  that  for  most  observers  he  completely  hides  the 
Englishman  of  real  life.  Hawthorne  had  decided  that  an 
Englishman  must  and  should  be  a  mere  mass  of  transformed 
beef  and  beer.  No  observation  could  shake  his  precon- 
ceived impression.  At  Greenwich  Hospital  he  encountered 
the  mighty  shade  of  the  concentrated  essence  of  our  strong- 
est national  qualities  ;  no  truer  Englishman  ever  lived  than 
Nelson.  But  Nelson  was  certainly  not  the  conventional 
John  Bull,  and,  therefore,  Hawthorne  roundly  asserts  that 
he  was  not  an  Englishman.  '  More  than  any  other  English- 
man he  won  the  love  and  admiration  of  his  country,  but  won 
them  through  the  efficacy  of  qualities  that  are  not  English.' 
Nelson  was  of  the  same  breed  as  Cromwell,  though  his 
shoulders  were  not  so  broad  ;  but  Hawthorne  insists  that 
the  broad  shoulders,  and  not  the  fiery  soul,  are  the  essence 
of  John  Bull.  He  proceeds  with  amusing  unconsciousness 
to  generalise  this  ingenious  theory,  and  declares  that  all 
extraordinary  Englishmen  are  sick  men,  and  therefore  de- 
viations from  the  type.  When  he  meets  another  remarkable 
EngUshman  in  the  flesh,  he  applies  the  same  method.  Of 
Leigh  Hunt,  whom  he  describes  with  warm  enthusiasm,  he 
dogmatically  declares,  'there  was  not  an  English  trait  in 
him  from  head  to  foot,  morally,  intellectually,  or  physically.' 
And  the  reason  is  admirable.  '  Beef,  ale,  or  stout,  brandy 
or  port-wine,  entered  not  at  all  into  his  constitution.'  All 
Englishmen  are  made  of  those  ingredients,  and  if  not,  why, 
then,  they  are  not  Englishmen.  By  the  same  method  it  is 
easy  to  show  that  all  Englishmen  are  drunkards,  or  that  they 
are  all  teetotalers  ;  you  have  only  to  exclude  as  irrelevant 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  177 

every  case  that  contradicts  your  theoiy.  Hawthorne,  un- 
luckily, is  by  no  means  sohtary  in  his  mode  of  reasoning. 
The  ideal  John  Bull  has  hidden  us  from  ourselves  as  well 
as  from  our  neighbours,  and  the  race  which  is  distinguished 
above  all  others  for  the  magnificent  wealth  of  its  imaginative 
literature  is  daily  told — and,  what  is  more,  tells  itself — that 
it  is  a  mere  lump  of  prosaic  flesh  and  blood,  with  scarcely 
soul  enough  to  keep  it  from  stagnation.  If  we  were  sensible 
we  should  burn  that  ridiculous  caricature  of  ourselves  along 
with  Guy  Fawkes  ;  but  meanwhile  we  can  hardly  complain 
if  foreigners  are  deceived  by  our  own  misrepresentations. 

Against  Hawthorne,  as  I  have  said,  I  feel  no  grudge, 
though  a  certain  regret  that  his  sympathy  with  that  deep 
vein  of  poetical  imagination  which  underlies  all  our  '  steaks 
and  sirloins  '  should  have  been  intercepted  by  this  detestable 
lay-figure.  The  poetical  humorist  must  be  allowed  a 
certain  license  in  dealing  with  facts  ;  and  poor  Hawthorne, 
in  the  uncongenial  atmosphere  of  the  Liverpool  Custom- 
house, had  doubtless  much  to  suffer  from  a  thick-skinned 
generation.  His  characteristic  shyness  made  it  a  hard  task 
for  him  to  penetrate  through  our  outer  rind — which,  to  say 
the  truth,  is  often  elephantine  enough — to  the  central  core 
of  heat ;  and  we  must  not  complain  if  he  was  too  apt  to 
deny  the  existence  of  what  to  him  was  unattainable.  But 
the  problem  recurs — for  everybody  likes  to  ask  utterly  un- 
answerable questions — whether  Hawthorne  would  not  have 
developed  into  a  still  greater  artist  if  he  had  been  more 
richly  supplied  with  the  diet  so  dear  to  his  inmost  soul? 
Was  it  not  a  thing  to  weep  over,  that  a  man  so  keenly  alive 
to  every  picturesque  influence,  so  an.xious  to  invest  his 
work  with  the  enchanted  haze  of  romantic  association, 
should  be  confined  till  middle  age  amongst  the  bleak  granite 

VOL.  I.  N 


178  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

rocks  and  the  half-baked  civiUsation  of  New  England? 
'  Among  ourselves,'  he  laments,  '  there  is  no  fairy  land  for 
the  romancer.'  What  if  he  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
native  home  of  the  fairies — if  there  had  been  thrown  open  to 
him  the  gates  through  which  Shakespeare  and  Spenser  caught 
their  visions  of  ideal  beauty  ?  Might  we  not  have  had  an 
appendix  to  the  '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,'  and  might 
not  a  modern  'Faerie  Queen  '  have  brightened  the  prosaic 
wilderness  of  this  nineteenth  century  ?  The  question,  as  I 
have  said,  is  rigidly  unanswerable.  We  have  not  yet  learnt 
how  to  breed  poets,  though  we  have  made  some  progress  in 
regard  to  pigs.  Nobody  can  tell,  and  perhaps,  therefore,  it 
is  as  well  that  nobody  should  guess,  what  would  have  been 
the  effect  of  transplanting  Shakespeare  to  modern  Stratford, 
or  of  exiling  him  to  the  United  States.  And  yet — for  it  is 
impossible  to  resist  entirely  the  pleasure  of  fruitless  specu- 
lation— we  may  guess  that  there  are  some  reasons  why  there 
should  be  a  risk  in  transplanting  so  delicate  a  growth  as  the 
genius  of  Hawthorne.  There  are  more  ways,  so  wise  men 
tell  us,  of  killing  a  cat  than  choking  it  with  cream  ;  but  it  is 
a  very  good  way.  Over-feeding  produces  atrophy  of  some 
of  the  vital  functions  in  higher  animals  than  cats,  and  the 
imagination  may  be  enfeebled  rather  than  strengthened  by 
an  over-supply  of  materials.  Hawthorne,  if  his  life  had 
passed  where  the  plough  may  turn  up  an  antiquity  in  every 
furrow,  and  the  whole  face  of  the  country  is  enamelled  with 
ancient  culture,  might  have  wrought  more  gorgeous  hues 
into  his  tissues,  but  he  might  have  succumbed  to  the  temp- 
tation of  producing  mere  upholstery.  The  fairy  land  for 
which  he  longed  is  full  of  dangerous  enchantments,  and 
there  are  many  who  have  lost  in  it  the  vigour  which  comes 
from  breathing  the  keen  air  of  everyday  life.     From  that 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  179 

risk  Hawthorne  was  effectually  preserved  in  his  New 
England  home.  Having  to  abandon  the  poetry  which  is 
manufactured  out  of  mere  external  circumstances,  he  was 
forced  to  draw  it  from  deeper  sources.  With  easier  means 
at  hand  of  enriching  his  pages,  he  might  have  left  the  mine 
unworked.  It  is  often  good  for  us  to  have  to  make  bricks 
without  straw.  Hawthorne,  who  w-as  conscious  of  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  the  problem,  and  but  partially  conscious 
of  the  success  of  his  solution  of  it,  naturally  complained  of 
the  severe  discipline  to  which  he  owed  his  strength.  We 
who  enjoy  the  results  may  feel  how  much  he  owed  to  the 
very  sternness  of  his  education  and  the  niggard  hand  with 
which  his  imaginative  sustenance  was  dealt  out  to  him. 
The  observation  may  sound  paradoxical  at  the  first  moment, 
and  yet  it  is  supported  by  analogy.  Are  not  the  best  cooks 
produced  just  where  the  raw  material  is  the  worst,  and 
precisely  because  it  is  there  worst  ?  Now,  cookery  is  the 
art  by  w^hich  man  is  most  easily  distinguished  from  beasts, 
and  it  requires  little  ingenuity  to  transfer  its  lessons  to 
literature.  At  the  same  time  it  may  be  admitted  that  some 
closer  inquiry  is  necessary  in  order  to  make  the  hypothesis 
probable,  and  I  will  endeavour  from  this  point  of  view  to 
examine  some  of  Hawthorne's  exquisite  workmanship. 

The  story  which  perhaps  generally  passes  for  his  master- 
piece is  'Transformation,'  for  most  readers  assume  that  a 
writer's  longest  book  must  necessarily  be  his  best.  In  the 
present  case,  I  think  that  this  method,  which  has  its  con- 
veniences, has  not  led  to  a  perfectly  just  conclusion.  In 
'Transformation,'  Hawthorne  has  for  once  the  advantage  of 
placing  his  characters  in  a  land  where  '  a  sort  of  poetic  or 
fairy  precinct,'  as  he  calls  it,  is  naturally  provided  for  them. 
The  very  stones  of  the  streets  are  full  of  romance,  and  he 

N  2 


i8o  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

cannot   mention   a   name   that   has    not   a    musical    ring. 
Hawthorne,  moreover,  shows  his  usual  tact  in  confining  his 
aims  to  the  possible.     He  does  not  attempt  to  paint  Italian 
life  and  manners  ;  his  actors  belong  by  birth,  or  by  a  kind 
of  naturalisation,  to  the  colony  of  the  American  artists  in 
Rome ;    and   he   therefore   does    not    labour    under    the 
difficulty  of  being  in  imperfect  sympathy  with  his  creatures. 
Rome  is  a  mere  background,  and  surely  a  most  felicitous 
background,  to  the  little  group  of  persons  who  are  effectually 
detached  from  all  such  vulgarising   associations    with   the 
mechanism  of  daily  life    in   less  poetical   countries.     The 
centre  of  the  group,  too,  who  embodies  one  of  Hawthorne's 
most  delicate  fancies,  could  have  breathed  no  atmosphere 
less  richly  perfumed  with  old  romance.     In  New  York  he 
would  certainly  have  been  in  danger  of  a  Barnum's  museum, 
beside  Washington's  nurse  and  the  woolly  horse.     It  is  a 
triumph  of  art  that  a  being  whose  nature  trembles  on  the 
very  verge  of  the  grotesque  should  walk  through  Hawthorne's 
pages  with  such  undeviating  grace.     In  the  Roman  dream- 
land he  is  in  little  danger  of  such  prying  curiosity,  though 
even  there  he  can  only  be  kept  out  of  harm's  way  by  the 
admirable  skill  of  his  creator.     Perhaps  it  may  be  thought 
by  some  severe  critics  that,  with  all  his  merits,  Donatello 
stands  on  the  very  outside  verge  of  the  province  permitted 
to  the  romancer.     But  without  cavilling  at  what  is  indis- 
putably charming,  and  without  dwelling  upon  certain  defects 
of  construction  which  slightly  mar  the  general  beauty  of  the 
story,  it  has  another  weakness  which  it  is  impossible  quite 
to  overlook.      Hawthorne    himself   remarks   that   he   was 
surprised,  in  re-writing  his  story,  to  see  the  extent  to  which 
he  had  introduced  descriptions  of  various  Italian  objects. 
Yet  these  things,'  he  adds,   '  fill  the  mind  everywhere  in 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  i8i 

Italy,  and  especially  in  Rome,  and  cannot  be  kept  from 
flowing  out  upon  the  page  when  one  writes  freely  and  with 
self-enjoyment.'  The  associations  which  they  called  up  in 
England  were  so  pleasant  that  he  could  not  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  cancel.  Doubtless  that  is  the  precise  truth,  and 
yet  it  is  equally  true  that  they  are  artistically  out  of  place. 
There  are  passages  which  recall  the  guide-book.  To  take 
one  instance — and,  certainly,  it  is  about  the  worst — the 
whole  party  is  going  to  the  Coliseum,  where  a  very  striking 
scene  takes  place.     On  the  way  they  pass  a  baker's  shop. 

'  "The  baker  is  drawing  his  loaves  out  of  the  oven," 
remarked  Kenyon.  "  Do  you  smell  how  sour  they  are  ?  I 
should  fancy  that  Minerva  (in  revenge  for  the  desecration  of 
her  temples)  had  slyly  poured  vinegar  into  the  batch,  if  I 
did  not  know  that  the  modern  Romans  prefer  their  bread  in 
the  acetous  fermentation."  ' 

The  instance  is  trivial,  but  it  is  characteristic.  Haw- 
thorne had  doubtless  remarked  the  smell  of  the  sour  bread, 
and  to  him  it  called  up  a  vivid  recollection  of  some  stroll  in 
Rome ;  for,  of  all  our  senses,  the  smell  is  notoriously  the 
most  powerful  in  awakening  associations.  But  then  what 
do  we  who  read  him  care  about  the  Roman  taste  for  bread 
'  in  acetous  fermentation  '  ?  When  the  high-spirited  girl  is 
on  the  way  to  meet  her  tormentor,  and  to  receive  the  pro- 
vocation which  leads  to  his  murder,  why  should  we  be 
worried  by  a  gratuitous  remark  about  Roman  baking?  It 
somehow  jars  upon  our  taste,  and  we  are  certain  that,  in 
describing  a  New  England  village,  Hawthorne  would  never 
have  admitted  a  touch  which  has  no  conceivable  bearing 
upon  the  situation.  There  is  almost  a  superabundance  of 
minute  local  colour  in  his  American  Romances,  as,  for 
example,  in  the  '  House  of  the  Seven  Gables ;  '  but  still. 


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every  touch,  however  minute,  is  steeped  in  the  sentiment 
and  contributes  to  the  general  effect.     In  Rome  the  smell 
of  a  loaf  is  sacred  to  his  imagination,  and  intrudes  itself 
upon  its  own  merits,  and,  so  far  as  we  can  discover,  without 
reference  to  the  central  purpose.    If  a  baker's  shop  impresses 
him  unduly  because  it  is  Roman,  the  influence  of  ancient 
ruins  and  glorious  works  of  art  is  of  course  still  more  dis- 
tracting.   The  mysterious  Donatello,  and  the  strange  psycho- 
logical problem  which  he  is  destined  to  illustrate,  are  put 
aside  for  an  interval,  whilst  we  are  called  upon  to  listen  to 
descriptions  and  meditations,  always  graceful,  and  often  of 
great  beauty  in  themselves,  but  yet,  in  a  strict  sense,  irrele- 
vant.    Hawthorne's  want  of  familiarity  with  the  scenery  is 
of  course  responsible  for  part  of  this  failing.     Had  he  been 
a  native  Roman,  he  would  not  have  been  so  preoccupied 
with  the  wonders  of  Rome.    But  it  seems  that  for  a  romance 
bearing   upon   a   spiritual  problem,  the   scenery,    however 
tempting,  is  not  really  so  serviceable  as  the  less  prepossessing 
surroundings  of  America.     The  objects  have  too  great  an 
intrinsic  interest.     A  counter-attraction  distorts  the  symme- 
try of  the  system.     In  the  shadow  of  the  Coliseum  and  St. 
Peter's  you  cannot  pay  much  attention  to  the  troubles  of  a 
young  lady  whose  existence  is  painfully  ephemeral.     Those 
mighty  objects  will  not  be  relegated  to  the  background,  and 
condescend  to  act  as  mere  scenery.     They  are,  in  fact,  too 
romantic  for  a  romance.     The  fountain  of  Trevi,  with  all  its 
allegorical  marbles,  may  be  a  very  picturesque  object  to  de- 
scribe, but  for  Hawthorne's  purposes  it  is  really  not  equal 
to  the  town-pump  at  Salem  ;   and  Hilda's  poetical  tower, 
with  the  perpetual  light  before  the  Virgin's  image,  and  the 
doves  floating  up  to  her  from  the  street,  and  the  column  of 
Antoninus  looking  at  her  from  the  heart  of  the  city,  somehow 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  183 

appeals  less  to  our  sympathies  than  the  quaint  garret  in  the 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  from  which  Phoebe  Pyncheon 
watched  the  singular  idiosyncrasies  of  the  superannuated 
breed  of  fowls  in  the  garden.  The  garret  and  the  pump  are 
designed  in  strict  subordination  to  the  human  figures  :  the 
tower  and  the  fountain  have  a  distinctive  purpose  of  their 
own.  Hawthorne,  at  any  rate,  seems  to  have  been  mastered 
by  his  too  powerful  auxiliaries.  A  human  soul,  even  in 
America,  is  more  interesting  to  us  than  all  the  churches 
and  picture-galleries  in  the  world  ;  and,  therefore,  it  is  as 
well  that  Hawthorne  should  not  be  tempted  to  the  too  easy 
method  of  putting  fine  description  in  place  of  sentiment. 

But  how  was  the  task  to  be  performed  ?     How  was  the 
imaginative  glow  to  be  shed  over  the  American  scenery,  so 
provokingly  raw   and   deficient   in   harmony?      A   similar 
problem  was  successfully  solved  by  a  writer  whose  develop- 
ment, in  proportion  to  her  means  of  cultivation,  is  about 
the  most  remarkable  of  recent  literary  phenomena.     Miss 
Bronte's  bleak  Yorkshire  moors,  with  their  uncompromis- 
ing stone  walls,  and  the  valleys  invaded  by  factories,  are 
at  first  sight  as  little  suited  to  romance  as  New  England 
itself,    to   which,    indeed,    both    the   inhabitants   and    the 
country  have   a  decided    family  resemblance.      Now  that 
she  has  discovered  for  us  the  fountains  of  poetic  interest, 
we  can  all  see  that  the  region  is  not  a  mere  stony  wilder- 
ness ;  but  it  is  well  worth  while  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
Haworth,  if  only  to  discover  how  little  the  country  corre- 
sponds to  our  preconceived  impressions,  or,  in  other  words, 
how  much  depends  upon  the  eye  which  sees  it,  and  how 
liitle  upon  its  intrinsic  merits.     Miss  Bronte's  marvellous 
effects   are   obtained    by   the   process   which    enables    an 
'  intense  and  glowing  mind '  to  see  everything  through  its 


1 84  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

own  atmosphere.  The  ughest  and  most  trivial  objects 
seem,  like  objects  heated  by  the  sun,  to  radiate  back  the 
glow  of  passion  with  which  she  has  regarded  them.  Per- 
haps this  singular  power  is  still  more  conspicuous  in  '  Villette,' 
where  she  had  even  less  of  the  raw  material  of  poetry.  An 
odd  parallel  may  be  found  between  one  of  the  most  striking 
passages  in  '  Villette  '  and  one  in  '  Transformation.'  Lucy 
Snowe  in  one  novel,  and  Hilda  in  the  other,  are  left  to  pass 
a  summer  vacation,  the  one  in  Brussels  and  the  other  in 
pestiferous  Rome.  Miss  Snowe  has  no  external  cause  of 
suffering  but  the  natural  effect  of  solitude  upon  a  homeless 
and  helpless  governess.  Hilda  has  to  bear  about  with  her 
the  weight  of  a  terrible  secret,  affecting,  it  may  be,  even  the 
life  of  her  dearest  friend.  Each  of  them  wanders  into  a 
Roman  Cathohc  church,  and  each,  though  they  have  both 
been  brought  up  in  a  Protestant  home,  seeks  relief  at  the 
confessional.  So  far  the  cases  are  alike,  though  Hilda, 
one  might  have  fancied,  has  by  far  the  strongest  cause  for 
emotion.  And  yet,  after  reading  the  two  descriptions — 
both  excellent  in  their  way— one  might  fancy  that  the  two 
young  ladies  had  exchanged  burdens.  Lucy  Snowe  is  as 
tragic  as  the  innocent  confidante  of  a  murderess  ;  Hilda's 
feelings  never  seem  to  rise  above  that  weary  sense  of 
melancholy  isolation  which  besieges  us  in  a  deserted  city. 
It  is  needless  to  ask  which  is  the  best  bit  of  work  artistically 
considered.  Hawthorne's  style  is  more  graceful  and 
flexible;  his  descriptions  of  the  Roman  Catholic  cere- 
monial and  its  influence  upon  an  imaginative  mind  in 
distress  are  far  more  sympathetic,  and  imply  a  wider  range 
of  intellect.  But  Hilda  scarcely  moves  us  like  Lucy. 
There  is  too  much  delicate  artistic  description  of  picture- 
galleries  and  of  the  glories  of  St.  Peter's  to  allow  the  poor 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  185 

little  American  girl  to  come  prominently  to  the  surface. 
We  have  been  indulging  with  her  in  some  sad  but  charming 
speculations,  and  not  witnessing  the  tragedy  of  a  deserted 
soul,  Lucy  Snowe  has  very  inferior  materials  at  her 
command  ;  but  somehow  we  are  moved  by  a  sympathetic 
thrill  :  we  taste  the  bitterness  of  the  awful  cup  of  despair 
which,  as  she  tells  us,  is  forced  to  her  lips  in  the  night- 
watches  ;  and  are  not  startled  when  so  prosaic  an  object  as 
the  row  of  beds  in  the  dormitory  of  a  French  school  suggests 
to  her  images  worthy  rather  of  stately  tombs  in  the  aisles  of 
a  vast  cathedral,  and  recall  dead  dreams  of  an  elder  world 
and  a  mightier  race  long  frozen  in  death.  Comparisons  of 
this  kind  are  almost  inevitably  unfair  ;  but  the  difference 
between  the  two  illustrates  one  characteristic — we  need  not 
regard  it  as  a  defect — of  Hawthorne.  His  idealism  does 
not  consist  in  conferring  grandeur  upon  vulgar  objects  by 
tinging  them  with  the  reflection  of  deep  emotion.  He 
rather  shrinks  than  otherwise  from  describing  the  strongest 
passions,  or  shows  their  working  by  indirect  touches  and 
under  a  side-light.  An  excellent  example  of  his  peculiar 
method  occurs  in  what  is  in  some  respects  the  most  perfect 
of  his  works,  the  '  Scarlet  Letter.'  There,  again,  we  have 
the  spectacle  of  a  man  tortured  by  a  life-long  repen- 
tance. The  Puritan  Clergyman,  reverenced  as  a  saint  by 
all  his  flock,  conscious  of  a  sin  which,  once  revealed, 
will  crush  him  to  the  earth,  watched  with  a  malignant 
purpose  by  the  husband  whom  he  has  injured,  unable  to 
summon  up  the  moral  courage  to  tear  off  the  veil,  and  make 
the  only  atonement  in  his  power,  is  a  singularly  striking 
figure,  powerfully  conceived  and  most  delicately  described. 
He  yields  under  terrible  pressure  to  the  temptation  of 
escaping  from  the  scene  of  his  prolonged  torture  with  the 


1 86  HOURS   IN  A   LIBRARY 

partner  of  his  guilt.  And  then,  as  he  is  returning  home- 
wards after  yielding  a  reluctant  consent  to  the  flight,  we  are 
invited  to  contemplate  the  agony  of  his  soul.  The  form 
which  it  takes  is  curiously  characteristic.  No  vehement 
pangs  of  remorse,  or  desperate  hopes  of  escape,  overpower 
his  faculties  in  any  simple  and  straightforward  fashion. 
The  poor  minister  is  seized  with  a  strange  hallucination. 
He  meets  a  venerable  deacon,  and  can  scarcely  restrain 
himself  from  uttering  blasphemies  about  the  Communion- 
supper.  Next  appears  an  aged  widow,  and  he  longs  to 
assail  her  with  what  appears  to  him  to  be  an  unanswerable 
argument  against  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Then  follows 
an  impulse  to  whisper  impure  suggestions  to  a  fair  young 
maiden,  whom  he  has  recently  converted.  And,  finally,  he 
longs  to  greet  a  rough  sailor  with  a  '  volley  of  good,  round, 
solid,  satisfactory,  and  heaven-defying  oaths.'  The  minister, 
in  short,  is  in  that  state  of  mind  which  gives  birth  in  its 
victim  to  a  belief  in  diabolical  possession  ;  and  the  mean- 
ing is  pointed  by  an  encounter  with  an  old  lady,  who,  in 
the  popular  belief,  was  one  of  Satan's  miserable  slaves 
and  dupes,  the  witches,  and  is  said — for  Hawthorne  never 
introduces  the  supernatural  without  toning  it  down  by 
a  supposed  legendary  transmission — to  have  invited  him  to 
meet  her  at  the  blasphemous  Sabbath  in  the  forest.  The 
sin  of  endeavouring  to  escape  from  the  punishment  of  his 
sins  had  brought  him  into  sympathy  with  wicked  mortals 
and  perverted  spirits. 

This  mode  of  setting  forth  the  agony  of  a  pure  mind 
tainted  by  one  irremovable  blot,  is  undoubtedly  impressive 
to  the  imagination  in  a  high  degree  ;  far  more  impressive, 
we  may  safely  say,  than  any  quantity  of  such  rant  as  very 
inferior   writers   could   have  poured  out  with    the   utmost 


NATHANIEL    IIAWTIIORNK  187 

facility  on  such  an  occasion.  Yet  it  might  possibly  be 
mentioned  that  a  poet  of  the  highest  order  would  have  pro- 
duced the  effect  by  more  direct  means.  Remorse  over- 
powering and  absorbing  does  not  embody  itself  in  these 
recondite  and,  one  may  almost  say,  over-ingenious  fancies. 
Hawthorne  does  not  give  us  so  much  the  pure  passion  as 
some  of  its  collateral  effects.  He  is  still  more  interested  in 
the  curious  psychological  problem  than  moved  by  sympathy 
with  the  torture  of  the  soul.  We  pity  poor  Mr.  Dimmesdale 
profoundly,  but  we  are  also  interested  in  him  as  the  subject 
of  an  experiment  in  analytical  psychology.  We  do  not  care 
so  much  for  his  emotions  as  for  the  strange  phantoms  which 
are  raised  in  his  intellect  by  the  disturbance  of  his  natural 
functions.  The  man  is  placed  upon  the  rack,  but  our  com- 
passion is  aroused,  not  by  feeling  our  own  nerves  and  sinews 
twitching  in  sympathy,  but  by  remarking  the  strange  con- 
fusion of  ideas  produced  in  his  mind,  the  singularly  distorted 
aspect  of  things  in  general  introduced  by  such  an  experi- 
ence, and  hence,  if  we  please,  inferring  the  keenest  of  the 
pangs  which  have  produced  them.  This  turn  of  thought 
explains  the  real  meaning  of  Hawthorne's  antipathy  to  poor 
John  Bull.  That  worthy  gentleman,  we  will  admit,  is  in  a 
sense  more  gross  and  beefy  than  his  American  cousin.  His 
nerves  are  stronger,  for  we  need  not  decide  whether  they 
should  be  called  coarser  or  less  morbid.  He  is  not,  in  the 
proper  sense  of  the  word,  less  imaginative,  for  a  vigorous 
grasp  of  realities  is  rather  a  proof  of  a  powerful  than  a 
defective  imagination.  But  he  is  less  accessible  to  those 
delicate  impulses  which  are  to  the  ordinary  passions  as 
electricity  to  heat.  His  imagination  is  more  intense  and 
less  mobile.  The  devils  which  haunt  the  two  races  partake 
of  the   national   characteristics.     John   Bunyan,   Dimmes- 


1 88  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

dale's  contemporary,  suffered  under  the  pangs  of  a  remorse 
equally  acute,  though  with  apparently  far  less  cause.  The 
devils  who  tormented  him  whispered  blasphemies  in  his 
ears  ;  they  pulled  at  his  clothes  ;  they  persuaded  him  that 
he  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin.  They  caused  the 
very  stones  in  the  streets  and  tiles  on  the  houses,  as  he  says, 
to  band  themselves  together  against  him.  But  they  had  not 
the  refined  and  humorous  ingenuity  of  the  American  fiends. 
They  tempted  him,  as  their  fellows  tempted  Dimmesdale,  to 
sell  his  soul  ;  but  they  were  too  much  in  earnest  to  insist 
upon  queer  breaches  of  decorum.  They  did  not  indulge  in 
that  quaint  play  of  fancy  which  tempts  us  to  believe  that 
the  devils  in  New  England  had  seduced  the  '  tricksy  spirit,' 
Ariel,  to  indulge  in  practical  jokes  at  the  expense  of  a  nobler 
victim  than  Stephano  or  Caliban.  They  were  too  terribly 
diabolical  to  care  whether  Bunyan  blasphemed  in  solitude 
or  in  the  presence  of  human  respectabilities.  Bunyan's 
sufferings  were  as  poetical,  but  less  conducive  to  refined 
speculation.  His  were  the  fiends  that  haunt  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death  ;  whereas  Hawthorne's  are  to  be 
encountered  in  the  dim  regions  of  twilight,  where  realities 
blend  inextricably  with  mere  phantoms,  and  the  mind  con- 
fers only  a  kind  of  provisional  existence  upon  the  '  airy 
nothings  '  of  its  creation.  Apollyon  does  not  appear  armed 
to  the  teeth  and  throwing  fiery  darts,  but  comes  as  an 
unsubstantial  shadow  threatening  vague  and  undefined 
dangers,  and  only  half-detaching  himself  from  the  back- 
ground of  darkness.  He  is  as  intangible  as  Milton's  Death, 
not  the  vivid  reality  which  presented  itself  to  mediaeval 
imaginations. 

This  special  attitude  of  mind  is  probably  easier  to  the 
American  than  to  the  English  imagination.     The  craving 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  189 

for  something  substantial,  whether  in  cookery  or  in  poetry, 
was  that  which  induced  Hawthorne  to  keep  John  Bull  rather 
at  arm's  length,  ^^'e  may  trace  the  working  of  similar 
tendencies  in  other  American  peculiarities.  Spiritualism 
and  its  attendant  superstitions  are  the  gross  and  vulgar  form 
of  the  same  phase  of  thought  as  it  occurs  in  men  of  highly- 
strung  nerves  but  defective  cultivation.  Hawthorne  always 
speaks  of  these  modern  goblins  with  the  contempt  they 
deserve,  for  they  shocked  his  imagination  as  much  as  his 
reason;  but  he  likes  to  play  with  fancies  which  are  not 
altogether  dissimilar,  though  his  refined  taste  warns  him  that 
they  become  disgusting  when  grossly  translated  into  tangible 
symbols.  Mesmerism,  for  example,  plays  an  important  part 
in  the  '  Blithedale  Romance  '  and  the  '  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,'  though  judiciously  softened  and  kept  in  the  back- 
ground. An  example  of  the  danger  of  such  tendencies  may 
be  found  in  those  works  of  Edgar  Poe,  in  which  he  seems 
to  have  had  recourse  to  strong  stimulants  to  rouse  a  flagging 
imagination.  What  is  exquisitely  fanciful  and  airy  in 
Hawthorne  is  too  often  replaced  in  his  rival  by  an  attempt 
to  overpower  us  by  dabblings  in  the  charnel-house  and 
prurient  appeals  to  our  fears  of  the  horribly  revolting.  After 
reading  some  of  Poe's  stories  one  feels  a  kind  of  shock  to 
one's  modesty.  We  require  some  kind  of  spiritual  ablution 
to  cleanse  our  minds  of  his  disgusting  images ;  whereas 
Hawthorne's  pure  and  delightful  fancies,  though  at  times 
they  may  have  led  us  too  far  from  the  healthy  contact  of 
everyday  interests,  never  leave  a  stain  upon  the  imagination, 
and  generally  succeed  in  throwing  a  harmonious  colouring 
upon  some  objects  in  which  we  had  previously  failed  to 
recognise  the  beautiful.  To  perform  that  duty  effectually  is 
perhaps  the  highest  of  artistic  merits  ;  and  though  we  may 


I90  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

complain  of  Hawthorne's  colouring  as  too  evanescent,  its 
charm  grows  upon  us  the  more  we  study  it. 

Hawthorne  seems  to  have  been  slow  in  discovering  the 
secret  of  his  own  power.  The  'Twice-Told  Tales,'  he  tells 
us,  are  only  a  fragmentary  selection  from  a  great  number 
which  had  an  ephemeral  existence  in  long-forgotten  maga- 
zines, and  were  sentenced  to  extinction  by  their  author. 
Though  many  of  the  survivors  are  very  striking,  no  wise 
reader  will  regret  that  sentence.  It  could  be  wished  that 
other  authors  were  as  ready  to  bury  their  innocents,  and 
that  injudicious  admirers  might  always  abstain  from  acting 
as  resurrection-men.  The  fragments,  which  remain  with  all 
their  merits,  are  chiefly  interesting  as  illustrating  the  intel- 
lectual development  of  their  author.  Hawthorne,  in  his 
preface  to  the  collected  edition  (all  Hawthorne's  prefaces  are 
remarkably  instructive)  tells  us  what  to  think  of  them.  The 
book,  he  says,  'requires  to  be  read  in  the  clear  brown  twi- 
light atmosphere  in  which  it  was  written  ;  if  opened  in  the 
sunshine  it  is  apt  to  look  exceedingly  like  a  volume  of  blank 
pages.'  The  remark,  with  deductions  on  the  score  of  mo- 
desty, is  more  or  less  appHcable  to  all  his  writings.  But  he 
explains,  and  with  perfect  truth,  that  though  written  in  soli- 
tude, the  book  has  not  the  abstruse  tone  which  marks  the 
written  communications  of  a  solitary  mind  with  itself.  The 
reason  is  that  the  sketches  '  are  not  the  talk  of  a  secluded 
man  with  his  owai  mind  and  heart,  but  his  attempts  ...  to 
open  an  intercourse  with  the  world.'  They  may,  in  fact,  be 
compared  to  Brummel's  failures  ;  and,  though  they  do  not 
display  the  perfect  grace  and  fitness  which  would  justify  him 
in  presenting  himself  to  society,  they  were  well  worth  taking 
up  to  illustrate  the  skill  of  the  master's  manipulation.  We 
see  him  trying  various  experiments  to  hit  off  that  delicate 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  191 

mean  between  the  fanciful  and  the  prosaic,  which  shall 
satisfy  his  taste  and  be  intelligible  to  the  outside  world. 
Sometimes  he  gives  us  a  fragment  of  historical  romance,  as 
in  the  story  of  the  stern  old  regicide  who  suddenly  appears 
from  the  woods  to  head  the  colonists  of  Massachusetts  in  a 
critical  emergency  ;  then  he  tries  his  hand  at  a  bit  of  allegory, 
and  describes  the  search  for  the  mythical  carbuncle  which 
blazes  by  its  inherent  splendour  on  the  face  of  a  mysterious 
cliff  in  the  depths  of  the  untrodden  wilderness,  and  lures  old 
and  young,  the  worldly  and  the  romantic,  to  waste  their  lives 
in  the  vain  effort  to  discover  it — for  the  carbuncle  is  the 
ideal  which  mocks  our  pursuit,  and  may  be  our  curse  or  our 
blessing.  Then  perhaps  we  have  a  domestic  piece — a  quiet 
description  of  a  New  England  country  scene,  touched  with 
a  grace  which  reminds  us  of  the  creators  of  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  or  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Occasionally  there  is 
a  fragment  of  pure  diablerie,  as  in  the  story  of  the  lady  who 
consults  the  witch  in  the  hollow  of  the  three  hills  ;  and 
more  frequently  he  tries  to  work  out  one  of  those  strange 
psychological  problems  which  he  afterwards  treated  with 
more  fulness  of  power.  The  minister  who,  for  an  unex- 
plained reason,  puts  on  a  black  veil  one  morning  in  his 
youth,  and  wears  it  until  he  is  laid  with  it  in  his  grave — a 
kind  of  symbolical  prophecy  of  Dimmesdale  ;  the  eccentric 
Wakefield  (whose  original,  if  I  remember  rightly,  is  to  be 
found  in  '  King's  Anecdotes  '),  who  leaves  his  house  one 
morning  for  no  particular  reason,  and  though  living  in  the 
next  street,  does  not  reveal  his  existence  to  his  wife  for 
twenty  years  ;  and  the  hero  of  the  '  Wedding  Knell,'  the 
elderly  bridegroom  whose  early  love  has  jilted  him,  but 
agrees  to  marry  him  when  she  is  an  elderly  widow  and  he 
an   old   bachelor,    and  who  appals  the  marriage  party   by 


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coming  to  the  church  in  his  shroud,  with  the  bell  tolling  as 
for  a  funeral — all  these  bear  the  unmistakable  stamp  of 
Hawthorne's  mint,  and  each  is  a  study  of  his  favourite  sub- 
ject, the  borderland  between  reason  and  insanity.  In  many 
of  these  stories  appears  the  element  of  interest,  to  which 
Hawthorne  clung  the  more  closely  both  from  early  associa- 
tions and  because  it  is  the  one  undeniably  poetical  element 
in  the  American  character.  Shallow-minded  people  fancy 
Puritanism  to  be  prosaic,  because  the  laces  and  ruffles  of 
the  Cavaliers  are  a  more  picturesque  costume  at  a  masked 
ball  than  the  dress  of  the  Roundheads.  The  Puritan  has 
become  a  grim  and  ugly  scarecrow,  on  whom  every  buffoon 
may  break  his  jest.  But  the  genuine  old  Puritan  spirit 
ceases  to  be  picturesque  only  because  of  its  sublimity  :  its 
poetry  is  sublimed  into  religion.  The  great  poet  of  the 
Puritans  fails,  as  far  as  he  fails,  when  he  tries  to  transcend 
the  limits  of  mortal  imagination  — 

The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze, 
Where  angels  tremble  as  they  gaze, 
He  saw  :  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 

To  represent  the  Puritan  from  within  was  not,  indeed, 
a  task  suitable  to  Hawthorne's  powers.  Carlyle  has  done 
that  for  us  with  more  congenial  sentiment  than  could 
have  been  well  felt  by  the  gentle  romancer.  Hawthorne 
fancies  the  grey  shadow  of  a  stern  old  forefather  wondering 
at  his  degenerate  son.  *  A  writer  of  story-books  !  What 
kind  of  business  in  life,  what  mode  of  glorifying  God,  or 
being  serviceable  to  mankind  in  his  day  and  generation,  may 
that  be  ?  Why,  the  degenerate  fellow  might  as  well  have 
been  a  fiddler  ! '  And  yet  the  old  strain  "remains,  though 
strangely  modified  by  time  and  circumstance.    In  Hawthorne 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  193 

it  would  seem  that  the  peddling  element  of  the  old  Puritans 
had  been  reduced  to  its  lowest  point ;  the  more  spiritual 
element  had  been  refined  till  it  is  probable  enough  that 
the  ancestral  shadow  would  have  refused  to  recognise  the 
connection.  l"he  old  dogmatical  framework  to  which  he 
attached  such  vast  importance  had  dropped  out  of  his 
descendant's  mind,  and  had  been  replaced  by  dreamy 
speculation,  obeying  no  laws  save  those  imposed  by  its  own 
sense  of  artistic  propriety.  But  we  may  often  recognise,  even 
where  we  cannot  express  in  words,  the  strange  family  like- 
ness which  exists  in  characteristics  which  are  superficially 
antagonistic.  The  man  of  action  may  be  bound  by  subtle- 
ties to  the  speculative  metaphysician  ;  and  Hawthorne's 
mind,  amidst  the  most  obvious  differences,  had  still  an 
affinity  to  his  remote  forefathers.  Their  bugbears  had 
become  his  playthings  ;  but  the  witches,  though  they  have 
no  reality,  have  still  a  fascination  for  him.  The  interest 
which  he  feels  in  them,  even  in  their  now  shadowy  state,  is 
a  proof  that  he  would  have  believed  in  them  in  good 
earnest  a  century  and  a  half  earlier.  The  imagination, 
working  in  a  different  intellectual  atmosphere,  is  unable  to 
project  its  images  upon  the  external  world  ;  but  it  still 
forms  them  in  the  old  shape.  His  solitary  musings 
necessarily  employ  a  modern  dialect,  but  they  often  turn  on 
the  same  topics  which  occurred  to  Jonathan  Edwards  in  the 
woods  of  Connecticut.  Instead  of  the  old  Puritan  specu- 
lations about  predestination  and  free-will,  he  dwells  upon 
the  transmission  by  natural  laws  of  an  hereditary  curse,  and 
upon  the  strange  blending  of  good  and  evil,  which  may 
cause  sin  to  be  an  awakening  impulse  in  a  human  soul. 
The  change  which  takes  place  in  Donatello  in  consequence 
of  his  crime  is  a  modern  symbol  of  the  fall  of  man  and  the 
VOL.   I.  o 


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eating  the  fruit  of  the  l<nowledge  of  good  and  evil.     As  an 
artist  he  gives  concrete  images  instead  of  abstract  theories  ; 
l)ut   his    thoughts  evidendy  dehght  to  dwell  in  the  same 
regions   where   the  daring  speculations   of  his    theological 
ancestors  took   their  origins.      Septimius,  the   rather  dis- 
agreeable hero  of  his  last  romance,  is  a  peculiar  example  of 
a  similar  change.     Brought  up  under  the  strict  discipline  of 
New  England,  he  has  retained  the  love  of  musing  upon  in- 
soluble mysteries,  though  he  has  abandoned  the  old  dogmatic 
guide-posts.       When  such  a  man   finds  that  the  orthodox 
scheme  of  the  universe  provided  by  his  official  pastors  has 
somehow  broken  down  with  him,  he  forms  some  audacious 
theory   of  his   own,  and  is  perhaps  plunged   into  an  un- 
hallowed revolt  against  the  Divine  order.     Septimius,  under 
such  circumstances,   develops  into  a  kind  of  morbid  and 
sullen  Haw^thorne.     He   considers  — as   other  people  have 
done — that  death  is  a  disagreeable  fact,  but  refuses  to  admit 
that  it  is  inevitable.     The  romance  tends  to  show  that  such 
a  state  of  mind  is  unhealthy  and  dangerous,  and  Septimius 
is  contrasted  unfavourably  with  the  vigorous  natures  who 
preserve  their  moral  balance  by  plunging  into  the  stream 
of  practical  life.     Yet  Hawthorne  necessarily  sympathises 
with   the   abnormal   being   whom   he   creates.      Septimius 
illustrates  the  dangers  of  the  musing  temperament,  but  the 
dangers  are  produced  by  a  combination   of  an  essentially 
selfish  nature  with  the  meditative  tendency.     Hawthorne, 
like  his  hero,  sought  refuge  from  the  hard  facts  of  common- 
place life  by  retiring  into  a  visionary  world.     He  delights 
in  propounding  much  the  same  questions  as  those  which 
tormented  poor  Septimius,  though,  for  obvious  reasons,  he 
did  not  try  to  compound  an  elixir  of  life  by   means  of  a 
recipe  handed  down  from  Indian  ancestors.     The  strange 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  195 

mysteries  in  which  the  world  and  our  nature  are  shrouded 
are  always  present  to  his  imagination  ;  he  catches  dim 
glimpses  of  the  laws  which  bring  out  strange  harmonies, 
but,  on  the  whole,  tend  rather  to  deepen  than  to  clear  the 
mysteries.  He  loves  the  marvellous,  not  in  the  vulgar  sense 
of  the  word,  but  as  a  symbol  of  perplexity  which  encounters 
every  thoughtful  man  in  his  journey  through  life.  Similar 
tenants  at  an  earlier  period  might,  with  almost  equal  pro- 
bability, have  led  him  to  the  stake  as  a  dabbler  in  forbidden 
sciences,  or  have  caused  him  to  be  revered  as  one  to  whom 
a  deep  spiritual  instinct  had  been  granted. 

Meanwhile,  as  it  was  his  calling  to  tell  stories  to  readers 
of  the  English  language  in  the  nineteenth  century,  his 
power  is  exercised  in  a  different  sphere.  No  modern  writer 
has  the  same  skill  in  so  using  the  marvellous  as  to  interest 
without  unduly  exciting  our  incredulity.  He  makes,  indeed, 
no  positive  demands  on  our  credulity.  The  strange  influ- 
ences which  are  suggested  rather  than  obtruded  upon  us 
are  kept  in  the  background,  so  as  not  to  invite,  nor  indeed 
to  render  possible,  the  application  of  scientific  tests.  We 
may  compare  him  once  more  to  Miss  Bronte,  who  intro- 
duces, in  '  Villette,'  a  haunted  garden.  She  shows  us  a 
ghost  who  is  for  a  moment  a  very  terrible  spectre  indeed, 
and  then,  very  much  to  our  annoyance,  rationalises  him 
into  a  flesh-and-blood  lover.  Hawthorne  would  neither 
have  allowed  the  ghost  to  intrude  so  forcibly,  nor  have 
expelled  him  so  decisively.  The  garden  in  his  hands  would 
have  been  haunted  by  a  shadowy  terror  of  which  we  could 
render  no  precise  account  to  ourselves.  It  w^ould  have  re- 
frained from  actual  contact  with  professors  and  governesses  ; 
and  as  it  would  never  have  taken  bodily  form,  it  would 
never  have  been  quite  dispelled.     His  ghosts  are  confined 

o  2 


196  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

to  their  proper  sphere,  the  twihght  of  the  mind,  and  never 
venture  into  the  broad  glare  of  daylight.  We  can  see  them 
so  long  as  we  do  not  gaze  directly  at  them  ;  when  we  turn 
to  examine  them  they  are  gone,  and  we  are  left  in  doubt 
whether  they  were  realities  or  an  ocular  delusion  generated 
in  our  fancy  by  some  accidental  collocation  of  half-seen 
objects.  So  in  the  '  House  of  the  Seven  Gables'  we  may 
hold  what  opinion  we  please  as  to  the  reality  of  the  curse 
which  hangs  over  the  Pyncheons  and  the  strange  connec- 
tion between  them  and  their  hereditary  antagonists  ;  in  the 
'  Scarlet  Letter '  we  may,  if  we  like,  hold  that  there  was 
really  more  truth  in  the  witch  legends  which  colour  the 
imaginations  of  the  actors  than  we  are  apt  to  dream  of  in 
our  philosophy  ;  and  in  '  Transformation  '  we  are  left  finally 
in  doubt  as  to  the  great  question  of  Donatello's  ears,  and 
the  mysterious  influence  which  he  retains  over  the  animal 
world  so  long  as  he  is  unstained  by  bloodshed.  In  '  Septi- 
mius  '  alone,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  supernatural  is  left  in 
rather  too  obtrusive  a  shape  in  spite  of  the  final  explanations  ; 
though  it  might  possibly  have  been  toned  down  had  the 
story  received  the  last  touches  of  the  author.  The  artifice, 
if  so  it  may  be  called,  by  which  this  is  effected — and  the 
romance  is  just  sufficiently  dipped  in  the  shadow  of  the 
marvellous  to  be  heightened  without  becoming  offensive — 
sounds,  like  other  things,  tolerably  easy  when  it  is  explained  ; 
and  yet  the  difficulty  is  enormous,  as  may  appear  on  reflec- 
tion as  well  as  from  the  extreme  rarity  of  any  satisfactory 
work  in  the  same  style  by  other  artists.  With  the  exception 
of  a  touch  or  two  in  Scott's  stories,  such  as  the  impressive 
Bodach  Glas,  in  '  Waverley,'  and  the  apparition  in  the 
exquisite  '  Bride  of  Lammermoor,'  it  would  be  difficult  to 
discover  any  parallel. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  197 

In  fact  Hawthorne  was  able  to  tread  in  that  magic  circle 
only  by  an  exquisite  refinement  of  taste,  and  by  a  delicate 
sense  of  humour,  which  is  the  best  preservative  against  all 
extravagance.  Both  qualities  combine  in  that  tender  de- 
lineation of  character  which  is,  after  all,  one  of  his  greatest 
charms.  His  Puritan  blood  shows  itself  in  sympathy,  not 
with  the  stern  side  of  the  ancestral  creed,  but  with  the 
feebler  characters  upon  whom  it  weighed  as  an  oppressive 
terror.  He  resembles,  in  some  degree,  poor  Clifford  Pyn- 
cheon,  whose  love  of  the  beautiful  makes  him  suffer  under 
the  stronger  will  of  his  relatives  and  the  prim  stiffness  of 
their  home.  He  exhibits  the  suffering  of  such  a  character 
all  the  more  effectively  because,  with  his  kindly  compassion 
there  is  mixed  a  delicate  flavour  of  irony.  The  more  tragic 
scenes  affect  us,  perhaps,  with  less  sense  of  power;  the 
playful,  though  melancholy,  fancy  seems  to  be  less  at  home 
when  the  more  powerful  emotions  are  to  be  excited  ;  and 
yet  once,  at  least,  he  draws  one  of  those  pictures  which 
engrave  themselves  instantaneously  on  the  memory.  The 
grimmest  or  most  passionate  of  writers  could  hardly  have 
improved  the  scene  where  the  body  of  the  magnificent 
Zenobia  is  discovered  in  the  river.  Every  touch  goes  straight 
to  the  mark.  The  narrator  of  the  story,  accompanied  by 
the  man  whose  coolness  has  caused  the  suicide,  and  the 
shrewd,  unimaginative  Yankee  farmer,  who  interprets  into 
coarse,  downright  language  the  suspicions  which  they  fear 
to  confess  to  themselves,  are  sounding  the  depths  of  the 
river  by  night  in  a  leaky  punt  with  a  long  pole.  Silas  Foster 
represents  the  brutal,  commonplace  comments  of  the  out- 
side world,  which  jar  so  terribly  on  the  more  sensitive  and 
closely  interested  actors  in  the  tragedy.  '  Heigho  ! '  he 
soliloquises,  with  offensive  loudness, '  life  and  death  together 


198  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

make  sad  work  for  us  all.  Then  I  was  a  boy,  bobbing  for 
fish  ;  and  now  I'm  getting  to  be  an  old  fellow,  and  here  I 
be,  groping  for  a  dead  body  !  I  tell  you  what  lads,  if  I 
thought  anything  had  really  happened  to  Zenobia,  I  should 
feel  kind  o'  sorrowful'  That  is  the  discordant  chorus  of 
the  gravediggers  in  '  Hamlet.'  At  length  the  body  is  found, 
and  poor  Zenobia  is  brought  to  the  shore  with  her  knees 
still  bent  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  and  her  hands  clenched 
in  immitigable  defiance.  Foster  tries  in  vain  to  straighten 
the  dead  limbs.  As  the  teller  of  the  story  gazes  at  her,  the 
grimly  ludicrous  reflection  occurs  to  him  that  if  Zenobia 
had  foreseen  all  '  the  ugly  circumstances  of  death — how  ill 
it  would  become  her,  the  altogether  unseemly  aspect  which 
she  must  put  on,  and  especially  old  Silas  Foster's  efforts  to 
improve  the  matter — she  would  no  more  have  committed 
the  dreadful  act  than  have  exhibited  herself  to  a  public 
assembly  in  a  badly-fitting  garment.' 


199 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS 

Balzac  exacts  more  attention  than  most  novel-readers  are 
inclined  to  give  ;  he  is  often  repulsive,  and  not  unfrequently 
dull  ;  but  the  student  who  has  once  submitted  to  his  charm 
becomes  spell-bound.  Disgusted  for  a  moment,  he  returns 
again  and  again  to  the  strange,  hideous,  grotesque,  but 
most  interesting  world  to  which  Balzac  alone  can  introduce 
him.  Like  the  opium-eater,  he  acquires  a  taste  for  the 
visions  that  are  conjured  up  before  him  with  so  vivid  a 
colouring,  that  he  almost  believes  in  their  objective 
existence.  There  are  perhaps  greater  novelists  than  Balzac  ; 
there  are  many  who  preach  a  purer  morality  ;  and  many 
who  give  a  far  greater  impression  of  general  intellectual 
force  ;  but  in  this  one  quality  of  intense  realisation  of  actors 
and  scenery  he  is  unique. 

Balzac,  indeed,  was  apparently  himself  almost  incapable 
of  distinguishing  his  dreams  from  realities.  Great  wits,  we 
know,  are  allied  to  madness  ;  and  the  boundaries  seem  in 
his  case  to  have  been  most  shadowy  and  indistinct. 
Indeed,  if  the  anecdotes  reported  of  him  be  accurate — some 
of  them  are  doubtless  rather  overcharged — he  must  have 
lived  almost  in  a  state  of  permanent  hallucination.  This, 
for  example,  is  a  characteristic  story.  He  inhabited  for 
some  years  a  house  called  les  Jardies,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Paris.     He  had  a  difficulty  in  providing  material 


200  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

furniture,  owing  to  certain  debts,  which,  as  some  sceptics 
insinuated,  were  themselves  a  vast  mystification.  He 
habitually  ascribed  his  poverty  to  a  certain  '  deficit 
Kessner,'  a  loss  which  reposed  on  some  trifling  foundation 
of  facts,  but  which  assumed  monstrous  proportions  in  his 
imagination,  and  recurred  perpetually  as  the  supposed 
cause  of  his  poverty.  In  sober  reality,  however,  he  was 
poor,  and  found  compensation  in  creating  a  vast  credit,  as 
imaginary  as  his  liabilities.  Upon  that  bank  he  could  draw 
without  stint.  He  therefore  inscribed  in  one  place  upon 
the  bare  walls  of  his  house,  '  Ici  un  revetement  de  marbre 
de  Paros  ; '  in  another,  '  Ici  un  plafond  peint  par  Eugene 
Delacroix  ; '  in  a  third,  '  Ici  des  portes,  fagon  Trianon ; ' 
and,  in  short,  revelled  in  gorgeous  decorations  made  of  the 
same  materials  as  the  dishes  of  the  Barmecides'  feast.  A 
minor  source  of  wealth  was  the  single  walnut-tree  which 
really  grew  in  his  gardens,  and  which  increased  his  dream- 
revenue  by  60/.  a  year.  This  extraordinary  result  was  due, 
not  to  any  merit  in  the  nuts,  but  to  an  ancient  and  imagin- 
ary custom  of  the  village  which  compelled  the  inhabitants 
to  deposit  round  its  foot  a  material  defined  by  Victor  Hugo 
as  '  du  guano  moins  les  oiseaux.'  The  most  singular  story, 
however,  and  which  we  presume  is  to  be  received  with  a 
certain  reserve,  tells  how  he  roused  two  of  his  intimate 
friends  at  two  o'clock  one  morning,  and  urged  them  to  start 
for  India  without  an  hour's  delay.  The  cause  of  this  journey 
was  that  a  certain  German  historian  had  presented  Balzac 
with  a  seal  valued  by  the  thoughtless  at  the  sum  of  six 
sous.  The  ring,  however,  had  a  singular  history  in  Balzac's 
dreamland.  It  was  impressed  with  the  seal  of  the  Prophet, 
and  had  been  stolen  by  the  English  from  the  Great  Mogul. 
Balzac  had   or   had   not   been  informed    by   the   Turkish 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  201 

ambassador  that  that  potentate  would  repurchase  it  with  tons 
of  gold  and  diamonds,  and  was  benevolent  enough  to  pro- 
pose that  his  friend  should  share  in  the  stores  which  would 
exceed  the  dreams  of  Aladdin. 

How  far  these  and  other  such  fancies  were  a  merely 
humorous  protest  against  the  harsh  realities  of  life,  may  be 
a  matter  of  speculation  ;  but  it  is  less  doubtful  that  the 
fictitious  personages  with  whom  Balzac  surrounded  him- 
self lived  and  moved  in  his  imagination  as  distinctly  as  the 
flesh-and-blood  realities  who  were  treading  the  pavement  of 
Paris.  He  did  not  so  much  invent  characters  and  situ- 
ations as  watch  his  imaginary  world,  and  compile  the 
memories  of  its  celebrities.  All  English  readers  are 
acquainted  with  the  little  circle  of  clergymen  and  wives  who 
inhabit  the  town  of  Barchester.  Balzac  has  carried  out  the 
same  device  on  a  gigantic  scale.  He  has  peopled  not  a 
country  town  but  a  metropolis.  There  is  a  whole  society, 
with  the  members  of  which  we  are  intimate,  whose  family 
secrets  are  revealed  to  us,  and  who  drop  in,  as  it  were,  in 
every  novel  of  a  long  series,  as  if  they  were  old  friends. 
When,  for  example,  young  Victurnien  d'Esgrignon  comes 
to  Paris  he  makes  acquaintance,  we  are  told,  with  De 
Marsay,  Maxime  de  Trailles,  Les  Lupeaulx,  Rastignac, 
Vandenesse,  Ajuda-Pinto,  the  Duchesses  de  Grandlieu,  de 
Carigliano,  de  ChauHeu,  the  Marquises  d'Espard,  d'Aigle- 
mont,  and  de  Listomere,  Madame  Firmiani,  the  Comtesse 
de  Serizy,  and  various  other  heads  of  the  fashionable  world. 
Every  one  of  these  special  characters  has  a  special  history. 
He  or  she  appears  as  the  hero  or  heroine  of  one  story,  and 
plays  subsidiary  parts  in  a  score  of  others.  They  recall  to 
us  innumerable  scandalous  episodes,  with  which  anybody 
who  lives  in  the  imaginary  society  of  Balzac's  Paris  feels  it 


202  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

a  duty  to  be  as  familiar  as  a  back-stairs  politician  with  the 
gossip  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  list  just  given  is  a 
mere  fragment  of  the  great  circle  to  which  Balzac  introduces 
us.  The  history  of  their  performances  is  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  the  time  ;  nay,  it  is  sometimes 
essential  to  a  full  comprehension  of  recent  events.  Bishop 
Proudie,  we  fear,  would  scarcely  venture  to  take  an  active 
part  in  the  Roman  Catholic  emancipation  ;  he  would  be  dis- 
solved into  thin  air  by  contact  with  more  substantial  forms  ; 
but  if  you  would  appreciate  the  intrigues  which  were  going 
on  at  Paris  during  the  campaign  of  Marengo,  you  must 
study  the  conversations  which  took  place  between  Talley- 
rand, Fouche,  Sieyes,  Carnot,  and  Malin,  and  their  rela- 
tions to  that  prince  of  policemen,  the  well-known  Corentin. 
De  Marsay,  we  are  told,  with  audacious  precision  of  time 
and  place,  was  President  of  the  Council  in  1833.  There  is 
no  tendency  on  the  part  of  these  spectres  to  shrink  from 
the  light.  They  rub  shoulders  with  the  most  celebrated 
statesmen,  and  mingle  in  every  event  of  the  time.  One  is 
driven  to  believe  that  Balzac  really  fancied  the  banker 
Nucingen  to  be  as  tangible  as  a  Rothschild,  and  was 
convinced  that  the  conversations  of  Louis  XVIII.  with 
Vandenesse  were  historic  facts.  His  sister  tells  us  that  he 
discussed  the  behaviour  of  his  own  creations  with  the 
utmost  gravity,  and  was  intensely  interested  in  discovering 
their  fate,  and  getting  the  earliest  information  as  to  the 
alliances  which  they  were  about  to  form.  It  is  a  curious 
question,  upon  which  I  cannot  profess  to  speak  positively, 
whether  this  voluminous  story  ever  comes  into  hopeless 
conflict  with  dates.  I  have  some  suspicions  that  the  bril- 
liant journalist,  Blondet,  was  married  and  unmarried  at  the 
same  period  ;  but,  considering  his  very  loose  mode  of  life, 


BALZAC S  NOVELS  203 

the  suspicion,  if  true,  is  susceptible  of  explanation.  Such 
study  as  I  have  made  has  not  revealed  any  case  of  incon- 
sistency ;  and  Balzac  evidently  has  the  whole  secret  (for  it 
seems  harsh  to  call  it  fictitious)  history  of  the  time  so 
completely  at  his  fingers'  ends,  that  the  effect  upon  the 
reader  is  to  produce  an  unhesitating  confidence.  If  a 
blunder  occurs  one  would  rather  believe  in  a  slip  of  the 
pen,  such  as  happens  to  real  historians,  not  in  the  substan- 
tial inaccuracy  of  the  narrative.  Sir  A.  Alison,  it  may  be 
remembered,  brings  Sir  Peregrine  Pickle  to  the  Duke  of 
Wellington's  funeral,  which  must  have  occurred  after  Sir 
Peregrine's  death  ;  and  Balzac's  imaginary  narrative  may 
not  be  perfectly  free  from  anachronism.  But,  if  so,  I  have 
not  found  him  out.  Everybody  must  sympathise  with 
the  English  lady  who  is  said  to  have  written  to  Paris 
for  the  address  of  that  most  imposing  physician,  Horace 
Bianchion. 

The  startling  realisation  may  be  due  in  part  to  a  mere 
literary  trick.  We  meet  with  artifices  like  those  by  which 
De  Foe  cheats  us  into  forgetfulness  of  his  true  character. 
One  of  the  best  known  is  the  insertion  of  superfluous  bits 
of  information,  by  way  of  entrapping  his  readers  into  the 
inference  that  they  could  only  have  been  given  because  they 
were  true.  The  snare  is  more  worthy  of  a  writer  of  begging- 
letters  than  of  a  genuine  artist.  Balzac  occasionally  in- 
dulges in  somewhat  similar  devices  ;  little  indirect  allusions 
to  his  old  characters  are  thrown  in  with  a  calculated  non- 
chalance ;  we  have  bits  of  antiquarian  information  as  to  the 
history  of  buildings  ;  superfluous  accounts  of  the  coats-of- 
arnis  of  the  principal  families  concerned,  and  anecdotes  as 
to  their  ancestry  ;  and,  after  he  has  given  us  a  name,  he 
sometimes  takes  care  to  explain  that  the  pronunciation  is 


204  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

different  from  the  spelling.  As  a  rule,  however,  these  irrele- 
vant minutiae  seem  to  be  thrown  in,  not  by  way  of  tricking 
us,  but  because  he  has  so  genuine  an  interest  in  his  own 
personages.  He  is  as  anxious  to  set  De  Marsay  or  the 
Pere  Goriot  distinctly  before  us,  as  Carlyle  to  make  us 
acquainted  with  Frederick  or  Cromwell.  Our  most  vivid 
painter  of  historical  portraits  is  not  more  charmed  to  dis- 
cover a  characteristic  incident  in  the  life  of  his  heroes,  or  to 
describe  the  pimples  on  his  face,  or  the  specks  of  blood  on 
his  collar,  than  Balzac  to  do  the  same  duty  for  the  creations 
of  his  fancy.  De  Foe  may  be  compared  to  those  favourites 
of  showmen  who  cheat  you  into  mistaking  a  flat-wall  paint- 
ing for  a  bas-relief  Balzac  is  one  of  the  patient  Dutch 
artists  who  exhaust  inconceivable  skill  and  patience  in  paint- 
ing every  hair  on  the  head  and  every  wrinkle  on  the  face  till 
their  work  has  a  photographic  accuracy.  The  result,  it  must 
be  confessed,  is  sometimes  rather  trying  to  the  patience. 
Balzac's  artistic  instinct,  indeed,  renders  every  separate  touch 
more  or  less  conducive  to  the  general  effect ;  but  he  takes  an 
unconscionable  time  in  preparing  his  ground.  Instead  of 
launching  boldly  into  his  story,  and  leaving  his  characters 
to  speak  for  themselves,  he  begins,  as  it  were,  by  taking  his 
automatons  carefully  to  pieces,  and  pointing  out  all  their 
wires  and  springs.  He  leaves  nothing  unaccounted  for. 
He  explains  the  character  of  each  actor  as  he  comes  upon 
the  stage  ;  and,  not  content  with  making  general  remarks, 
he  plunges  with  extraordinary  relish  into  the  minutest  per- 
sonal details.  In  particular,  we  know  just  how  much  money 
everybody  has  got,  and  how  he  has  got  it.  Balzac  absolutely 
revels  in  elaborate  financial  statements.  And  constantly, 
just  as  we  hope  that  the  action  is  about  to  begin,  he  catches 
us,  as  it  were,  by  the  button-hole,  and  begs  us  to  wait  a 


BALZAC'S   NOVELS  205 

minute  to  listen  to  a.  few  more  preparatory  remarks.  In 
one  or  two  of  the  stories,  as,  for  example,  in  the  '  Maison 
Nucingen,'  the  introduction  seems  to  fill  the  whole  book. 
After  expecting  some  catastrophe,  we  gradually  become 
aware  that  Balzac  has  thought  it  necessary  to  give  us  a  con- 
scientious explanation  of  some  very  dull  commercial  intrigues, 
in  order  to  fill  up  gaps  in  other  stories  of  the  cycle.  Some 
one  might  possibly  ask,  what  was  the  precise  origin  of  this 
great  failure  of  which  we  hear  so  much,  and  Balzac  resolves 
that  he  shall  have  as  complete  an  answer  as  though  he  were 
an  accountant  drawing  up  a  balance-sheet.  It  is  .said,  I 
know  not  on  what  authority,  that  his  story  of  '  Cesar  Birot- 
teau  '  has,  in  fact,  been  quoted  in  French  courts  as  illustrat- 
ing the  law  of  bankruptcy  ;  and  the  details  given  are  so  ample, 
and,  to  English  readers  at  least,  so  wearisome,  that  it  really 
reads  more  like  a  legal  statement  of  a  case  than  a  novel. 
As  another  example  of  this  elaborate  workmanship  I  may 
quote  the  remarkable  story  of  '  Les  Paysans.'  It  is  intended 
to  illustrate  the  character  of  the  French  peasant,  his  pro- 
found avarice  and  cunning,  and  his  bitter  jealousy,  which 
forms  a  whole  district  into  a  tacit  conspiracy  against  the 
rich,  held  together  by  closer  bonds  than  those  of  a  Fenian 
lodge.  Balzac  resolves  that  we  shall  have  the  whole  scene 
and  all  the  actors  distinctly  before  us.  We  have  a  descrip- 
tion of  a  country-house,  more  poetical,  but  far  more  detailed, 
than  one  in  an  auctioneer's  circular  ;  then  we  have  a  photo- 
graph of  the  neighbouring  cabaret;  then  a  minute  descrip- 
tion of  its  inhabitants,  and  a  detailed  statement  of  their 
ways  and  means.  The  story  here  makes  a  feeble  start ;  but 
Balzac  recollects  that  we  don't  quite  know  the  origin  of 
the  quarrel  on  which  it  depends,  and,  therefore,  elaborately 
describes  the  former  proprietor,  points  out   precisely  how 


2o6  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

she  was  cheated  by  her  bailiff,  and  precisely  to  what  amount, 
and  throws  in  descriptions  of  two  or  three  supplementary 
persons.  We  now  make  another  start  in  the  history  of  the 
quarrel  ;  but  this  immediately  throws  us  back  into  a  minute 
description  of  the  old  bailiff's  family  circumstances,  of  the 
characters  of  several  of  his  connections,  and  of  the  insidious 
villain  who  succeeds  him.  Then  we  have  a  careful  financial 
statement  of  the  second  proprietor's  losses,  and  the  com- 
mercial system  which  favours  them  ;  this  leads  to  some 
antiquarian  details  concerning  the  bailiffs  house,  and  to 
detailed  portraits  of  each  of  the  four  guards  who  are  set  to 
watch  over  the  property.  Then  Balzac  remarks  that  we 
cannot  possibly  understand  the  quarrel  without  understand- 
ing fully  the  complicated  family  relations,  owing  to  which 
the  officials  of  the  department  form  what  in  America  would 
be  called  a  'ring.'  By  this  time  we  are  halfway  through 
the  volume,  and  the  promised  story  is  still  in  its  infancy. 
Even  Balzac  makes  an  apology  for  his  longueurs,  and  tries 
to  set  to  work  in  greater  earnest.  He  is  so  much  in- 
terrupted, however,  by  the  necessity  of  elaborately  intro- 
ducing every  new  actor,  and  all  his  or  her  relations,  and 
the  houses  in  which  they  live,  and  their  commercial  and 
social  position,  that  the  essence  of  the  story  has  at  last 
to  be  compressed  into  half  a  dozen  pages.  In  short,  the 
novel  resolves  itself  into  a  series  of  sketches  ;  and  reading 
it  is  like  turning  over  a  set  of  photographs,  with  letterpress 
descriptions  at  intervals.  Or  we  may  compare  it  to  one 
of  those  novels  of  real  life,  so  strange  to  the  English  mind, 
in  which  a  French  indictment  sums  up  the  whole  pre- 
vious history  of  the  persons  accused,  accumulates  every 
possible  bit  of  information  which  may  or  may  not  throw 
light  upon  the  facts,  and  diverges  from  the  point,  as  English 


BALZAC S  NOVELS  207 

lawyers  would  imagine,  into  the  most  irrelevant  consider- 
ations. 

Balzac,    it    is   plain,    differs   widely    from    our    English 
authors,  who  generally  slightly  despise  their  own  art,  and 
think  that,  in  providing  amusement  for  our  idle  hours,  they 
are  rather  derogating  from  their  dignity.     Instead  of  claim- 
ing our  attention  as  a  right,  they  try  to  entice  us  into  interest 
by  every  possible  artifice  :  they  give  us  exciting  glimpses  of 
horrors  to  come  ;   they  are  restlessly  anxious  to  get  their 
stories  well  under  way.     Balzac  is  far  more  confident  in  his 
position.     He  never  doubts  that  we  shall  be  willing  to  study 
his  works  with  the  seriousness  due  to  a  scientific  treatise. 
And  occasionally,  when  he  is  seized  by  a  sudden  and  most 
deplorable  fit  of  morality,  he  becomes  as  dull  as  a  sermon. 
The  gravity  with  which  he  sets  before  us  all  the  benevolent 
schemes  of  the  medeciii  de  campagne,  and  describes  the  whole 
charitable  machinery  of  the  district,  makes  his  performance 
as  dismal  as  a  gigantic  religious  tract.      But  when,  in  his 
happier  and  wickeder  moods,  he  turns  this  amazing  capacity 
of  graphic  description  to  its  true  account,  the  power  of  his 
method  makes  itself  manifest.  Every  bit  of  elaborate  geo- 
graphical  and  financial    information  has  its  meaning,  and 
tells  with  accumulated  force   on  the  final  result.      I  may 
instance,  for  example,  the  descriptions  of  Paris,  which  form 
the  indispensable  background  to  the  majority  of  his  stories, 
and  contribute   in  no  inconsiderable  share  to  their  tragic 
effect.     Balzac  had  to  deal  with  the  Paris  of  the  Restora- 
tion, full  of  strange  tortuous  streets  and  picturesque  corners, 
of  swinging  lanterns  and  defective  drainage  ;  the  Paris  which 
inevitably  suggested   barricades  and  street  massacres,  and 
was  impregnated  to  the  core  with  old  historical  associations. 
It  had  not  yet  lowered  itself  to  the  comprehension  of  New 


2o8  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

Yorkers,  and  still  offered  such  scenery  as  Gustave  Dore  has 
caught  in  his  wonderful  illustrations  of  the  '  Contes  Drola- 
tiques.'  Its  mysterious  and  not  over-cleanly  charm  lives  in 
the  pages  of  Balzac,  and  harmonises  with  the  strange  society 
which  he  has  created  to  people  its  streets.  Thus,  in  one  of 
his  most  audacious  stories,  where  the  horribly  grotesque 
trembles  on  the  verge  of  the  ridiculous,  he  strikes  the  key- 
note by  an  elegant  apostrophe  to  Paris.  There  are,  he  tells 
us,  a  few  connoisseurs  who  enjoy  the  Parisian  flavour  like 
the  bouquet  of  some  delicate  wine.  To  all  Paris  is  a 
marvel ;  to  them  it  is  a  living  creature  ;  every  man,  every 
fragment  of  a  house,  is  '  part  of  the  cellular  tissue  of  this 
great  courtesan,  whose  head,  heart,  and  fantastic  manners 
are  thoroughly  known  to  them.'  They  are  lovers  of  Paris  ; 
to  them  it  is  a  costly  luxury  to  travel  in  Paris.  They  are 
incessantly  arrested  before  the  dramas,  the  disasters,  the 
picturesque  accidents,  which  assail  one  in  the  midst  of  this 
moving  queen  of  cities.  They  start  in  the  morning  to  go  to 
its  extremities,  and  find  themselves  still  unable  to  leave  its 
centre  at  dinner-time.  It  is  a  marvellous  spectacle  at  all 
times  ;  but,  he  exclaims,  '  O  Paris  !  qui  n'a  pas  admire  tes 
sombres  paysages,  tes  e'chappees  de  lumiere,  tes  culs-de-sac 
profonds  et  silencieux  ;  qui  n'a  pas  entendu  tes  murmures 
entre  minuit  et  deux  heures  du  matin,  ne  connait  enc(jre 
rien  de  ta  vraie  poesie,  ni  de  tes  bizarres  et  larges  con- 
trastes.' 

In  the  scenes  which  follow,  we  are  introduced  to  a  lover 
watching  the  beautiful  and  virtuous  object  of  his  adoration 
as  she  descends  an  infamous  street  late  in  the  evening,  and 
enters  one  of  the  houses  through  a  damp,  moist,  and  fetid 
passage,  feebly  lighted  by  a  trembling  lamp,  beneath  which 
are  seen  the  hideous  face  and  skinny  fingers  of  an  old  woman, 


BALZAC S  NOVELS 


209 


as  fitly  placed  as  the  witches  in  the  blasted  heath  in  '  Macbeth.' 
In  this  case,  however,  Balzac  is  in  one  of  his  wildest  moods, 
and  the  hideous  mysteries  of  a  huge  capital  become  the 
pretext  for  a  piece  of  rather  ludicrous  melodrama.  Paris 
is  full  enough  of  tragedies  without  the  preposterous  beggar 
Ferragus,  who  appears  at  balls  as  a  distinguished  diplomat, 
and  manages  to  place  on  a  young  gentleman's  head  of  hair 
a  slow  poison  (invented  for  the  purpose),  which  brings  him 
to  an  early  grave.  More  impressive,  because  less  extrava- 
gant, is  that  Maison  Vauquer,  every  hole  and  corner  of 
which  is  familiar  to  the  real  student  of  Balzac.  It  is  situated, 
as  everybody  should  know,  in  the  Rue  NeuveSt.-Genevieve, 
just  where  it  descends  so  steeply  towards  the  Rue  de 
I'Arbalete  that  horses  have  some  trouble  in  climbing  it. 
We  know  its  squalid  exterior,  its  creaking  bell,  the  wall 
painted  to  represent  an  arcade  in  green  marble,  the  crumb- 
ling statue  of  Cupid,  with  the  half-effaced  inscription — 

'  Qui  que  tu  sois,  voici  ton  maitre, — 
II  Test,  le  fut,  ou  le  doit  etre.' 

We  have  visited  the  wretched  garden  with  its  scanty 
pot-herbs  and  scarecrow  beds,  and  the  green  benches  in  the 
miserable  arbour,  where  the  lodgers  who  are  rich  enough  to 
enjoy  such  a  luxury  indulge  in  a  cup  of  coffee  after  dinner. 
The  salon,  with  its  greasy  and  worn-out  furniture,  every  bit 
of  which  is  catalogued,  is  as  familiar  as  our  own  studies. 
We  know  the  exact  geography  even  of  the  larder  and  the 
cistern.  We  catch  the  odour  of  the  damp,  close  office, 
where  Madame  Vauquer  lurks  like  a  human  spider.  She  is 
the  animating  genius  of  the  place,  and  we  know  the  exact 
outline  of  her  figure,  and  every  article  of  her  dress.  The 
minuteness  of  her  portrait  brings  out  the  horrors  of  the 
terrible  process  by  which  poor  Goriot  gradually  sinks  from 

VOL.  I.  P 


2IO  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

one  step  to  another  of  the  social  ladder,  and  simultaneously 
ascends  from  the  first  floor  to  the  garrets.  We  can  track 
his  steps  and  trace  his  agony.  Each  station  of  that  melan- 
choly pilgrimage  is  painted,  down  to  the  minutest  details, 
with  unflinching  fidelity. 

Paris,  says  Balzac,  is  an  ocean ;  however  painfully  you 
explore  it  and  sound  its  depths,  there  are  still  virgin  corners, 
unknown  caves,  with  their  flowers,  pearls,  and  monsters, 
forgotten  by  literary  divers.  The  Maison  Vauquer  is  one 
of  these  singular  monstrosities.  No  one,  at  any  rate,  can 
complain  that  Balzac  has  not  done  his  best  to  describe  and 
analyse  the  character  of  the  unknown  social  species  which 
it  contains.  It  absorbs  our  interest  by  the  contrast  of  its 
vulgar  and  intensely  commonplace  exterior  with  the  terrible 
passions  and  sufferings  of  which  it  is  the  appropriate  scene. 

The  horrors  of  a  great  metropolis,  indeed,  give  ample 
room  for  tragedy.  Old  Sandy  Mackaye  takes  Alton  Locke 
to  the  entrance  of  a  London  alley,  and  tells  the  sentimental 
tailor  to  write  poetry  about  that.  '  Say  how  ye  saw  the 
mouth  o'  hell,  and  the  twa  pillars  thereof  at  the  entry,  the 
pawnbroker's  shop  on  the  one  side  and  the  gin-palace  at  the 
other — two  monstrous  deevils,  eating  up  men,  women,  and 
bairns,  body  and  soul.  Look  at  the  jaws  o'  the  monsters, 
how  they  open  and  open  to  swallow  in  anither  victim  and 
anither.  Write  about  that  ! '  The  poor  tailor  complains 
that  it  is  unpoetical,  and  Mackaye  replies,  '  Hah  !  is  there 
no  the  heaven  above  them  here  and  the  hell  beneath  them  ? 
and  God  frowning  and  the  deevil  grinning?  No  poetry 
there  !  Is  no  the  verra  idee  of  the  classic  tragedy  defined 
to  be — man  conquered  by  circumstances  ?  Canna  ye  see  it 
here  ? '  But  the  quotation  must  stop,  for  Mackaye  goes  on 
to  a  moral  not  quite  according  to  Balzac.      Balzac,  indeed. 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  211 

was  anything  but  a  Christian  sociahst,  or  a  Radical 
reformer  ;  we  don't  often  catch  sight  in  his  pages  of  God 
frowning  or  the  devil  grinning  ;  his  world  seems  to  be  pretty 
well  forgotten  by  the  one,  and  its  inhabitants  to  be  quite 
able  to  dispense  with  the  services  of  the  other.  Paris,  he 
tells  us  in  his  most  outrageous  story,  is  a  hell,  which  one 
day  may  have  its  Dante.  The  proletaire  lives  in  its  lowest 
circle,  and  seldom  comes  into  Balzac's  pages  except  as 
representing  the  half-seen  horrors  of  the  gulf  reserved  for 
that  corrupt  and  brilliant  society  whose  vices  he  loves  to 
describe.  A  summary  of  his  creed  is  given  by  a  queer 
contrast  to  Mackaye,  the  accomplished  and  able  De  Marsay. 
People  speak,  he  says,  of  the  immorality  of  certain  books  ; 
here  is  a  horrible,  foul,  and  corrupt  book,  always  open  and 
never  to  be  shut ;  the  great  book  of  the  world  ;  and 
.  beyond  that  is  another  book  a  thousand  times  more 
dangerous,  which  consists  of  all  that  is  whispered  by  one 
man  to  another,  or  discussed  under  ladies'  fans  at  balls. 
Balzac's  pages  are  flavoured,  rather  to  excess,  with  this 
diabolical  spice,  composed  of  dark  allusions  to,  or  audacious 
revelations  of,  these  hideous  mysteries.  If  he  is  wanting 
in  the  moral  elevation  necessary  for  a  Dante,  he  has  some 
of  the  sinister  power  which  makes  him  a  fit  guide  to  the 
horrors  of  our  modern  Inferno. 

Before  accepting  Balzac's  guidance  into  these  mysterious 
regions  I  must  touch  upon  another  peculiarity.  Balzac's 
genius  for  skilfully  combined  photographic  detail  explains 
his  strange  power  of  mystification.  A  word  is  wanting  to 
express  that  faint  acquiescence  or  mimic  belief  which  we 
generally  grant  to  a  novelist.  Dr.  Newman  has  constructed 
a  scale  of  assent  according  to  its  varying  degrees  of  intensity; 

p  2 


212  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

and  we  might,  perhaps,  assume  that  to  each  degree  there 
corresponds  a  mock  assent  accorded  to  different  kinds  of 
fiction.  If  Scott,  for  example,  requires  from  his  readers  a 
shadow  of  that  kind  of  behef  which  we  grant  to  an  ordinary 
historian,  Balzac  requires  a  shadow  of  the  belief  which  Dr. 
Pusey  gives  to  the  Bible.  This  still  remains  distinctly  be- 
low any  genuine  assent ;  for  Balzac  never  wishes  us  really 
to  forget,  though  he  occasionally  forgets  himself,  that  his 
most  life-like  characters  are  imaginary.  But  in  certain  sub- 
ordinate topics  he  seems  to  make  a  higher  demand  on  our 
faith.  He  is  full  of  more  or  less  fanciful  heresies,  and 
labours  hard  to  convince  us  either  that  they  are  true  or  that 
he  seriously  holds  them.  This  is  what  I  mean  by  mystifica- 
tion, and  one  fears  to  draw  a  line  as  to  which  he  was 
probably  far  from  clear  himself.  Thus,  for  example,  he  is  a 
devout  behever  in  physiognomy,  and  not  only  in  its  obvious 
sense  ;  he  erects  it  into  an  occult  science.  Lavater  and 
Gall,  he  says,  '  prove  incontestably  '  that  ominous  signs  exist 
in  our  heads.  Take,  for  example,  the  chasseur  Michu,  his 
white  face  injected  with  blood  and  compressed  like  a  Cal- 
muck's ;  his  ruddy,  crisp  hair  ;  his  beard  cut  in  the  shape 
of  a  fan ;  the  noble  forehead  which  surmounts  and  overhangs 
his  sunburnt,  sarcastic  features  ;  his  ears  well  detached,  and 
possessing  a  sort  of  mobility,  like  those  of  a  wild  animal  ; 
his  mouth  half  open,  and  revealing  a  set  of  fine  but  uneven 
teeth ;  his  thick  and  glossy  whiskers ;  his  hair,  close  in 
front,  long  on  the  sides  and  behind,  with  its  wild,  ruddy  hue 
throwing  into  relief  the  strange  and  fatal  character  of  the 
physiognomy ;  his  short  thick  neck,  designed  to  tempt  the 
hatchet  of  the  guillotine  :  these  details,  so  accurately  photo- 
graphed, not  only  prove  that  M.  Michu  was  a  resolute, 
faithful  servant,  capable  of  the   profoundest   secresy   and 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  213 

the  most  disinterested  attachment,  but,  for  the  really  skilful 
reader  of  mystic  symbols,  foretell  his  ultimate  fate — namely, 
that  he  will  be  the  victim  of  a  false  accusation.  Balzac, 
however,  ventures  into  still  more  whimsical  extremes.  He 
accepts,  in  all  apparent  seriousness,  the  theory  of  his  favour- 
ite, Mr.  Shandy,  that  a  man's  name  influences  his  character. 
Thus,  for  example,  a  man  called  Minoret-Levrault  must 
necessarily  be  '  un  elephant  sans  trompe  et  sans  intelligence,' 
.and  the  occult  meaning  of  Z.  Marcas  requires  a  long  and 
elaborate  commentary.  Repeat  the  word  Marcas,  dwelling 
on  the  first  syllable  and  dropping  abruptly  on  the  second, 
and  you  will  see  that  the  man  who  bears  it  must  be  a  martyr. 
The  zigzag  of  the  initial  implies  a  life  of  torment.  What  ill 
wind,  he  asks,  has  blown  upon  this  letter,  which  in  no 
language  (Balzac's  acquaintance  with  German  was  probably 
limited)  commands  more  than  fifty  words  ?  The  name  is 
composed  of  seven  letters,  and  seven  is  most  characteristic 
of  cabalistic  numbers.  If  IM.  Gozlan's  narrative  be 
authentic,  Balzac  was  right  to  value  this  name  highly, 
for  he  had  spent  many  hours  in  seeking  for  it  by  a  syste- 
matic perambulation  of  the  streets  of  Paris.  He  was  rather 
vexed  at  the  discovery  that  the  Marcas  of  real  life  was  a 
tailor.  '  He  deserved  a  better  fate  ! '  said  Balzac  pathetically ; 
'  but  it  shall  be  my  business  to  immortalise  him.' 

Balzac  returns  to  this  subject  so  often  and  so  emphati- 
cally that  one  half  believes  him  to  be  the  victim  of  his  own 
mystification.  Perhaps  he  was  the  one  genuine  disciple  of 
Mr.  Shandy  and  Slawkenbergius,  and  believed  sincerely  in 
the  occult  influence  of  names  and  noses.  In  more  serious 
matters  it  is  impossible  to  distinguish  the  point  at  which  his 
feigned  belief  passes  into  real  superstition  ;  he  stimulates 
conviction  so  elaborately,  that  his  sober  opinions  shade  off 


214  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

imperceptibly  into  his  fanciful  dreamings.  For  a  time  he 
was  attracted  by  mesmerism,  and  in  the  story  of  Ursule 
Mirouet  he  labours  elaborately  to  infect  his  readers  with  a 
belief  in  what  he  calls  '  magnetism,  the  favourite  science  of 
Jesus,  and  one  of  the  powers  transmitted  to  the  apostles.' 
He  assumes  his  gravest  airs  in  adducing  the  cases  of  Cardan, 
Swedenborg,  and  a  certain  Duke  of  IVIontmorency,  as  though 
he  were  a  genuine  historical  inquirer.  He  almost  adopts 
the  tone  of  a  pious  missionary  in  describing  how  his  atheist 
doctor  was  led  by  the  revelations  of  a  clairvoyante  to  study 
Pascal's  'Pensees'  and  Bossuet's  sublime  '  Histoire  des 
Variations,'  though  what  those  works  have  to  do  with  mes- 
merism is  rather  difficult  to  see.  He  relates  the  mysterious 
visions  caused  by  the  converted  doctor  after  his  death, 
not  less  minutely,  though  more  artistically,  than  De  Foe 
described  the  terrible  apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal,  and,  it  must 
be  confessed,  his  story  illustrates  with  almost  equal  force  the 
doctrine,  too  often  forgotten  by  spiritualists,  that  ghosts 
should  not  make  themselves  too  common.  When  once 
they  begin  to  mix  in  general  society,  they  become  intoler- 
ably prosaic. 

The  ostentatious  belief  which  is  paraded  in  this 
instance  is  turned  to  more  artistic  account  in  the  won- 
derful story  of  the  '  Peau  de  Chagrin.'  Balzac  there  tries 
as  conscientiously  as  ever  to  surmount  the  natural  revolt  of 
our  minds  against  the  introduction  of  the  supernatural  into 
life.  The  peau  de  chagrin  is  the  modern  substitute  for  the 
old-fashioned  parchment  on  which  contracts  were  signed 
with  the  devil.  M.  Valentin,  its  possessor,  is  a  Faust  of 
the  boulevards;  but  our  prejudices  are  softened  by  the 
circumstance  that  the  peau  de  chagri?i  has  a  false  air  of 
scientific   authenticity.     It  is  discovered    by   a   gentleman 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  215 

who  spends  a  spare  half-hour  before  committing  suicide  in 
an  old  curiosity  shop,  which  occupies  a  sort  of  middle 
standing-ground  between  a  wizard's  laboratory  and  the 
ordinary  AVardour  Street  shop.  There  is  no  question  of 
signing  with  one's  blood,  but  simply  of  accepting  a  curious 
substance  with  the  property — rather  a  startling  one,  it  is 
true — that  its  area  diminishes  in  proportion  to  the  amount 
of  wishes  gratified,  and  vanishes  with  the  death  of  the 
possessor.  The  steady  flesh-and-blood  men  of  science  treat  it 
just  as  we  feel  certain  that  they  would  do.  After  smashing 
a  hydraulic  press  in  the  attempt  to  compress  it,  and  ex- 
hausting the  power  of  chemical  agents,  they  agree  to  make 
a  joke  of  it.  It  is  not  so  much  more  wonderful  than  some 
of  those  modern  miracles,  which  leave  us  to  hesitate  between 
the  two  incredible  alternatives  that  men  of  science  are 
fallible,  or  that  mankind  in  general,  like  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
grandmother,  are  'awfu'  leears.'  Every  effort  is  made  to 
reduce  the  strain  upon  our  credulity  to  that  moderate 
degree  of  intensity  which  may  fairly  be  required  from  the 
reader  of  a  wild  fiction.  When  the  first  characteristic  wish 
of  the  proprietor — namely,  that  he  may  be  indulged  in  a 
frantic  orgie — has  been  gratified  without  any  apparent  inter- 
vention of  the  supernatural,  we  are  left  just  in  that  proper 
equilibrium  between  scepticism  and  credulity  which  is  the 
right  mental  attitude  in  presence  of  a  marvellous  story. 
Balzac,  it  is  true,  seems  rather  to  flag  in  continuing  his 
narrative.  The  symbolical  meaning  begins  to  part  company 
with  the  facts.  Stories  of  this  kind  require  the  congenial 
atmosphere  of  an  ideal  world,  and  the  effort  of  interpreting 
such  a  poetical  legend  into  terms  of  ordinary  life  is  perhaps 
too  great  for  the  powers  of  any  literary  artist.  At  any  rate 
M.  Valentin   drops  after  a  time  from   the  level  of  Faust  to 


2i6  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

become  the  hero  of  a  rather  commonplace  Parisian  story. 
The  opening  scenes,  however,  are  an  admirable  specimen 
of  the  skill  by  which  our  irrepressible  scepticism  may  be 
hindered  from  intruding  into  a  sphere  where  it  is  out  of 
place  ;  or  rather — for  one  can  hardly  speak  of  belief  in  such 
a  connection — of  the  skill  by  which  the  discord  between  the 
surroundings  of  the  nineteenth  century  and  a  story  of  gro- 
tesque supernaturalism  can  be  converted  into  a  pleasant 
harmony.  A  similar  effect  is  produced  in  one  of  Balzac's 
finest  stories,  the  '  Recherche  de  I'Absolu.'  Every  accessory 
is  provided  to  induce  us,  so  long  as  we  are  under  the 
spell,  to  regard  the  discovery  of  the  philosopher's  stone  as  a 
reasonable  application  of  human  energy.  We  are  never 
quite  clear  whether  Balthazar  Claes  is  a  madman  or  a  com. 
manding  genius.  We  are  kept  trembling  on  the  verge  of  a 
revelation  till  we  become  interested  in  spite  of  our  more 
sober  sense.  A  single  diamond  turns  up  in  a  crucible 
which  was  unluckily  produced  in  the  absence  of  the  philo- 
sopher, so  that  he  cannot  tell  what  are  the  necessary  con- 
ditions of  repeating  the  process.  He  is  supposed  to  discover 
the  secret  just  as  he  is  struck  by  a  paralysis,  which  renders 
him  incapable  of  revealing  it,  and  dies  whilst  making 
desperate  efforts  to  communicate  the  crowning  success  to 
his  family.  Balzac  throws  himself  into  the  situation  with 
such  energy  that  we  are  irresistibly  carried  away  by  his 
enthusiasm.  The  impossibility  ceases  to  annoy  us,  and 
merely  serves  to  give  additional  dignity  to  the  story. 

One  other  variety  of  mystification  may  introduce  us  to 
some  of  Balzac's  most  powerful  stories.  He  indulges  more 
frequently  than  could  be  wished  in  downright  melodrama, 
or  what  is  generally  called  sensational  writing.     In  the  very 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  217 

brilliant  sketch  of  Nathan  in   '  Une  Fille  d'Eve,'  he  remarks 
that  'the  mission  of  genius  is  to  search,  through  the  accidents 
of  the  true,   for  that  which  must  appear  probable  to  all  the 
world.'     The  common  saying,  that  truth   is  stranger  than 
fiction,    should   properly    be   expressed  as  an   axiom    that 
fiction  ought  not  to  be  so  strange  as  truth.     A  marvellous 
event  is  interesting  in  real  life,  simply  because   we  know 
that  it  happened.     In  a  fiction  we  know  that   it  did   not 
happen  ;  and  therefore  it  is  interesting  only  as  far  as  it  is 
explained.     Anybody  can   invent  a  giant  or  a  genius  by  the 
simple  process  of  altering  figures  or  piling  up  superlatives. 
The  artist  has  to  make  the  existence  of  the  giant  or  the 
genius  conceivable.      Balzac,  however,  often  enough  forgets 
this  principle,  and  treats  us  to  purely  preposterous  incidents, 
which  are  either  grotesque  or  simply  childish.     The  history 
of  the  marvellous  'Thirteen,'  for  example,  that  mysterious 
band  which  includes  statesmen,    beggars,  men  of  fortune, 
and  journahsts,  and  goes  about  committing  the   most  in- 
conceivable  crimes   without   the    possibility   of  discovery, 
becomes  simply  ludicrous.     Balzac,    as    usual,    labours   to 
reconcile  our  minds  to   the   absurdity  ;   but   the   effort   is 
beyond  his  powers.     The  amazing  disease  which  he  invents 
for  the  benefit  of  the  villains  in  the  '  Cousine  Bette '  can 
only  be  accepted  as  a  broad  joke.     At   times,   as   in  the 
story  of  the  '  Grande  Breteche,'  where  the  lover  is  bricked 
up  by  the  husband  in  the  presence  of  the  wife,  he  reminds 
us  of  Edgar  Poe's  worst  extravagances.     There  is,  indeed, 
this  much  to  be  said  for  Balzac  in   comparison  with  the 
more  recent  school,  who  have  turned  to  account   all    the 
most  refined  methods  of  breaking  the  ten  commandments 
and  the  criminal  code  ;  the  fault  of  the  so-called  sensation 
writer  is,  not  that  he  deals  in  murder,  bigamy,  or  adultery — 


2i8  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

every  great  writer  likes  to  use  powerful  situations — but  that 
he  relies  upon  our  interest  in  startling  crimes  to  distract  our 
attention  from  feebly-drawn  characters  and  conventional 
details.  Balzac  does  not  often  fall  into  that  weakness.  If 
his  criminals  are  frequently  of  the  most  outrageous  kind, 
and  indulge  even  in  practices  unmentionable,  the  crime  is 
intended  at  least  to  be  of  secondary  interest.  He  tries  to 
fix  our  attention  on  the  passions  by  which  they  are  caused, 
and  to  attract  us  chiefly  by  the  legitimate  method  of  ana- 
lysing human  nature — even,  it  must  be  confessed,  in  some 
of  its  most  abnormal  manifestations.  Macbeth  is  not  in- 
teresting because  he  commits  half  a  dozen  murders ;  but 
the  murders  are  interesting  because  they  are  committed 
by  Macbeth.  We  may  generally  say  as  much  for  Balzac's 
villains ;  and  it  is  the  only  justification  for  a  free  use  of 
blood  and  brutality.  In  applying  these  remarks,  we  come 
to  the  real  secret  of  Balzac's  power,  which  will  demand  a 
fuller  consideration. 

It  is  common  to  say  of  all  great  novelists,  and  of  Balzac 
in  particular,  that  they  display  a  wonderful  '  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart.'  The  chief  objection  to  the  phrase  is  that 
such  knowledge  does  not  exist.  Nobody  has  as  yet  found 
his  way  through  the  complexities  of  that  intricate  machine, 
and  described  the  springs  and  balances  by  which  its  move- 
ment is  originated  and  controlled.  Men  of  vivid  imagina- 
tion are  in  some  respects  less  competent  for  such  a  work 
than  their  neighbours.  They  have  not  the  cool,  hard,  and 
steady  hand  required  for  psychological  dissection.  Balzac 
gave  a  queer  specimen  of  his  own  incapacity  in  an  attempt 
to  investigate  the  true  history  of  a  real  murder,  celebrated 
in  its  day,  and  supposed  by  everybody  but  Balzac  to  have 
been  committed  by  one  Peytel,  who  was  put  to  death  in 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  219 

spite  of  his  pleading.  His  skill  in  devising  motives  for 
imaginary  atrocities  was  a  positive  disqualification  for  deal- 
ing with  facts  and  legal  evidence.  The  greatest  poet  or 
novelist  describes  only  one  person,  and  that  is  himself;  and 
he  differs  from  his  inferiors,  not  necessarily  in  having  a  more 
systematic  knowledge,  but  in  having  wider  sympathies, 
and,  so  to  speak,  possessing  a  great  number  of  characters 
Cervantes  was  at  once  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza ; 
Shakespeare  was  Hamlet  and  Mercutio  and  Othello  and 
Falstaff ;  Scott  was  at  once  Dandie  Dinmont  and  the  Anti- 
quary and  the  Master  of  Ravenswood;  and  Balzac  embodies 
his  different  phases  of  feeling  in  Eugenie  Grandet  and 
Vautrin  and  the  Pere  Goriot.  The  assertion  that  he  knew 
the  human  heart  must  be  interpreted  to  mean  that  he  could 
sympathise  with,  and  give  expression  to,  a  wide  range  of 
human  passions;  as  his  supposed  knowledge  of  the  world 
implies  merely  that  he  was  deeply  impressed  by  certain 
phenomena  of  the  social  medium  in  which  he  was  placed. 
Nobody,  I  should  be  inclined  to  think,  would  have  given  a 
more  unsound  judgment  than  Balzac  as  to  the  characters 
of  the  men  whom  he  met,  or  formed  a  less  trustworthy  esti- 
mate of  the  real  condition  of  society.  He  was  totally 
incapable  of  stripping  the  bare  facts  given  by  observation  of 
the  colouring  which  they  received  from  his  own  idiosyn- 
crasy. But  nobody,  within  certain  points,  could  express 
more  vividly  in  outward  symbols  the  effect  produced  upon 
keen  sympathies  and  a  powerful  imagination  by  the  aspect 
of  the  world  around  him. 

The  characteristic  peculiarities  of  Balzac's  novels  may 
be  described  as  the  intensity  with  which  he  expresses  certain 
motives,  and  the  vigour  with  which  he  portrays  the  real  or 
imaginary  corruption  of  society.     Upon  one  particular  situa- 


220  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

tion,  or  class  of  situations,  favourable  to  this  peculiar  power, 
he  is  never  tired  of  dwelling.  He  repeats  himself  indeed, 
in  a  certain  sense,  as  a  man  must  necessarily  repeat  himself 
who  writes  eighty-five  stories,  besides  doing  other  work,  in 
less  than  twenty  years.  In  this  voluminous  outpouring  of 
matter  the  machinery  is  varied  with  wonderful  fertility  of 
invention,  but  one  sentiment  recurs  very  frequently.  The 
great  majority  of  Balzac's  novels,  including  all  the  most 
powerful  examples,  may  thus  be  described  as  variations  on 
a  single  theme.  Each  of  them  is  in  fact  the  record  of  a 
martyrdom.  There  is  always  a  virtuous  hero  or  heroine 
who  is  tortured,  and  most  frequently,  tortured  to  death,  by 
a  combination  of  selfish  intrigues.  The  commonest  case  is, 
of  course,  that  which  has  become  the  staple  plot  of  French 
novelists,  where  the  interesting  young  woman  is  sacrificed 
to  the  brutality  of  a  dull  husband  :  that,  for  example,  is  the 
story  of  the  '  Femme  de  Trente  Ans,'  of  '  Le  Lys  dans  la 
Vallee,'  and  of  several  minor  performances  ;  then  we  have 
the  daughter  sacrificed  to  the  avaricious  father,  as  in 
'  Eugenie  Grandet ; '  the  woman  sacrified  to  the  imperious 
lover  in  the  '  Duchesse  de  Langeais  ; '  the  immoral  beauty 
sacrificed  to  the  ambition  of  her  lover  in  the  '  Splendeurs  et 
Miseres  des  Courtisanes  ; '  the  mother  sacrificed  to  the  dis- 
solute son  in  the  '  Menage  de  Gargon  ; '  the  woman  of  poli- 
tical ambition  sacrificed  to  the  contemptible  intriguers 
opposed  to  her  in  '  Les  Employes ; '  and,  indeed,  in  one  way 
or  other,  as  subordinate  character  or  as  heroine,  this  figure 
of  a  graceful  feminine  victim  comes  into  nearly  every  novel. 
Virtuous  heroes  fare  little  better.  Poor  Colonel  Chabert 
is  disowned  and  driven  to  beggary  by  the  wife  who  has 
committed  bigamy  ;  the  luckless  cure,  Birotteau,  is  cheated 
out  of  his  prospects  and  doomed  to  a  broken  heart  by  the 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  221 

successful  villainy  of  a  rival  priest  and  his  accomplices  ;  the 
Comte  de  Manerville  is  ruined  and  transported  by  his  wife 
and  his  detestable  mother-in-law  ;  Pere  Goriot  is  left  to 
starvation  by  his  daughters  ;  the  Marquis  d'Espard  is  all  but 
condemned  as  a  lunatic  by  the  manoeuvres  of  his  wife  ;  the 
faithful  servant  Michu  comes  to  the  guillotine ;  the  devoted 
notary  Chesnel  is  beggared  in  the  effort  to  save  his  scape- 
grace of  a  master  ;  Michaud,  another  devoted  adherent,  is 
murdered  with  perfect  success  by  the  brutal  peasantry,  and 
his  wife  dies  of  the  news  ;  Balthazar  Claes  is  the  victim  of 
his  devotion  to  science  ;  and  Z.  Marcas  dies  unknown  and 
in  the  depths  of  misery  as  a  reward  for  trying  to  be  a  second 
Colbert.  The  old-fashioned  canons  of  poetical  justice  are 
inverted  ;  and  the  villains  are  dismissed  to  live  very  happily 
ever  afterwards,  whilst  the  virtuous  are  slain  outright  or  sen- 
tenced to  a  death  by  slow  torture.  Thackeray,  in  one  or 
two  of  his  minor  stories,  has  touched  the  same  note.  The 
history  of  Mr.  Deuceace,  and  especially  its  catastrophe,  is 
much  in  Balzac's  style  ;  but,  as  a  rule,  our  English  novelists 
shrink  from  anything  so  unpleasant. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  example  of  this  method  is  the 
'  Pere  Goriot.'  The  general  situation  may  be  described  in 
two  words,  by  saying  that  Goriot  is  the  modern  King  Lear. 
Mesdames  de  Pvcstaud  and  de  Nucingen  are  the  represen- 
tatives of  Regan  and  Goneril ;  but  the  Parisian  Lear  is  not 
allowed  the  consolation  of  a  Cordelia  ;  the  cup  of  misery  is 
measured  out  to  him  drop  by  drop,  and  the  bitterness  of 
each  dose  is  analysed  with  chemical  accuracy.  We  watch 
the  poor  old  broken-down  merchant,  who  has  impoverished 
himself  to  provide  his  daughters'  dowries,  and  has  gradually 
stripped  himself,  first  of  comfort,  and  then  of  the  necessaries 
of  life  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  their  folly  and  luxury,  as 


222  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

we  might  watch  a  man  dinging  to  the  edge  of  a  cliff  and 
gradually  dropping  lower  and  lower,  catching  feebly  at 
every  point  of  support  till  his  strength  is  exhausted,  and  the 
inevitable  catastrophe  follows.  The  daughters,  allowed  to 
retain  some  fragments  of  good  feeling  and  not  quite  irre- 
deemably hateful,  are  gradually  yielding  to  the  demoralising 
influence  of  a  heartless  vanity.  I'hey  yield  it  is  true,  pretty 
completely  at  last ;  but  their  wickedness  seems  to  reveal 
the  influence  of  a  vague  but  omnipotent  power  of  evil  in  the 
background.  There  is  not  a  more  characteristic  scene  in 
Balzac  than  that  in  which  Rastignac,  the  lover  of  Madame 
de  Nucingen,  overhears  the  conversation  between  the 
father  in  his  wretched  garret  and  the  modern  Goneril  and 
Regan.  A  gleam  of  good  fortune  has  just  encouraged  old 
Goriot  to  anticipate  an  escape  from  his  troubles.  On  the 
morning  of  the  day  of  expected  release  Madame  Goneril  de 
Nucingen  rushes  up  to  her  father's  garret  to  explain  to  him 
that  her  husband,  the  rich  banker,  having  engaged  all  his 
funds  in  some  diabolical  financial  intrigue,  refuses  to  allow 
her  the  use  of  her  fortune  ;  whilst,  owing  to  her  own  miscon- 
duct, she  is  afraid  to  appeal  to  the  law.  They  have  a 
hideous  tacit  compact,  according  to  which  the  wife  enjoys 
full  domestic  liberty,  whilst  the  husband  may  use  her  fortune 
to  carry  out  his  dishonest  plots.  She  begs  her  father  to 
examine  the  facts  in  the  light  of  his  financial  experience, 
though  the  examination  must  be  deferred,  that  she  may  not 
look  ill  with  the  excitement  when  she  meets  her  lover  at  the 
ball.  As  the  poor  father  is  tormenting  his  brains,  Madame 
Regan  de  Restaud  appears  in  terrible  distress.  Her  lover 
has  threatened  to  commit  suicide  unless  he  can  meet  a 
certain  bill,  and  to  save  him  she  has  pledged  certain 
diamonds  which  were  heirlooms  in  her  husband's  family. 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  223 

Her  husband  has  discovered  the  whole  transaction,  and 
though  not  making  an  o[)cn  scandal,  imposes  some  severe 
conditions  upon  her  future.  Old  Goriot  is  raving  against 
the  brutality  of  her  husband,  when  Regan  adds  that  there 
is  still  a  sum  to  be  paid,  without  which  her  lover,  to  whom 
she  has  sacrificed  everything,  will  be  ruined.  Now  old 
Goriot  had  employed  just  this  sum — all  but  the  very  last 
fragment  of  his  fortune — in  the  service  of  Goneril.  A 
desperate  quarrel  instantly  takes  place  between  the  two  fine 
ladies  over  this  last  scrap  of  their  father's  property.  They 
are  fast  degenerating  into  Parisian  Billingsgate,  when  Goriot 
succeeds  in  obtaining  silence  and  proposes  to  strip  himself 
of  his  last  penny.  Even  the  sisters  hesitate  at  such  an 
impiety,  and  Rastignac  enters  with  some  apology  for 
hstening,  and  hands  over  to  the  countess  a  certain  bill  of 
exchange  for  a  sum  which  he  professes  himself  to  owe  to 
Goriot,  and  which  will  just  save  her  lover.  She  accepts  the 
paper,  but  vehemently  denounces  her  sister  for  having,  as 
she  supposes,  allowed  Rastignac  to  listen  to  their  hideous 
revelations,  and  retires  in  a  fury,  whilst  the  father  faints 
away.  He  recovers  to  express  his  forgiveness,  and  at  this 
moment  the  countess  returns,  ostensibly  to  throw  herself  on 
her  knees  and  beg  her  father's  pardon.  She  apologises  to 
her  sister,  and  a  general  reconciliation  takes  place.  But 
before  she  has  again  left  the  room  she  has  obtained  her 
father's  endorsement  to  Rastignac's  bill.  Even  her  most 
genuine  fury  had  left  coolness  enough  for  calculation,  and 
her  burst  of  apparent  tenderness  was  a  skilful  bit  of  comedy 
for  squeezing  one  more  drop  of  blood  from  her  father  and 
victim.     That  is  a  genuine  stroke  of  Balzac. 

Hideous  as  the  performance  appears  \\hen  coolly  stated, 
it   must   be   admitted   that   the  ladies  have  got  into  such 


224  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

terrible  perplexities  from  tampering  with  the  seventh  com- 
mandment, that  there  is  some  excuse  for  their  breaking  the 
fifth.  Whether  such  an  accumulation  of  horrors  is  a  legi- 
timate process  in  art,  and  whether  a  healthy  imagination 
would  like  to  dwell  upon  such  loathsome  social  sores,  is 
another  question.  The  comparison  suggested  with  '  King 
Lear  '  may  illustrate  the  point.  In  Balzac  all  the  subordinate 
details  which  Shakespeare  throws  in  with  a  very  slovenly 
touch  are  elaborately  drawn  and  contribute  powerfully  to  the 
total  impression.  On  the  other  hand  we  never  reach  the 
lofty  poetical  heights  of  the  grandest  scenes  in  '  King  Lear.' 
But  the  situation  of  the  two  heroes  offers  an  instructive 
contrast.  Lear  is  weak,  but  is  never  contemptible  ;  he  is 
the  ruin  of  a  gallant  old  king,  is  guilty  of  no  degrading 
compliance,  and  dies  like  a  man,  with  his  'good  biting 
falchion '  still  grasped  in  his  feeble  hand.  To  change  him 
into  Goriot  we  must  suppose  that  he  had  licked  the  hand 
which  struck  him,  that  he  had  helped  on  the  adulterous 
intrigues  of  Goneril  and  Regan  from  sheer  weakness,  and 
that  all  his  fury  had  been  directed  against  Cornwall  and 
Albany  for  objecting  to  his  daughter's  eccentric  views  of  the 
obligation  of  the  marriage  vow.  Paternal  affection  leading 
a  man  to  the  most  trying  self-sacrifice  is  a  worthy  motive 
for  a  great  drama  or  romance  ;  but  Balzac  is  so  anxious  to 
intensify  the  emotion,  that  he  makes  even  paternal  affection 
morally  degrading.  Everything  must  be  done  to  heighten 
the  colouring.  Our  sympathies  are  to  be  excited  by 
making  the  sacrifice  as  complete,  and  the  emotion  which 
prompts  it  as  overpowering,  as  possible  ;  until  at  last  the 
love  of  children  becomes  a  monomania.  Goriot  is  not 
only  dragged  through  the  mud  of  Paris,  but  he  grovels  in 
it  with  a  will.      In  short,  Balzac  wants  that  highest  power 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  225 

which  shows  itself  by  moderation,  and  commits  a  fault  like 
that  of  an  orator  who  emphasises  every  sentence.  With  less 
expenditure  of  horrors,  he  would  excite  our  compassion 
more  powerfully.  But  after  all,  Goriot  is,  perhaps,  more 
really  affecting  even  than  King  Lear. 

Situations  of  the  '  Pere  Goriot '  kind  are,  in  some  sense, 
more  appropriate  for  heroines  than  for  heroes.  Self-sacri- 
fice is,  for  the  present  at  least,  considered  by  a  large  part  of 
mankind  as  the  complete  duty  of  woman.  The  feminine 
martyr  can  indulge  without  loss  of  our  esteem  in  compliances 
which  would  be  degrading  in  a  man.  Accordingly  Balzac 
finds  the  amplest  materials  for  his  favourite  situation  in  the 
torture  of  innocent  women.  The  great  example  of  his  skill 
in  this  department  is  Eugenie  Grandet,  in  which  the  situa- 
tion of  the  Pere  Goriot  is  inverted.  Poor  Eugenie  is  the 
victim  of  a  domestic  tyrant,  who  is,  perhaps,  Balzac's  most 
finished  portrait  of  the  cold-blooded  and  cunning  miser. 
The  sacrifice  of  a  woman's  life  to  paternal  despotism  is  un- 
fortunately even  commoner  in  real  life  than  in  fiction  ;  and 
when  the  lover,  from  whom  the  old  miser  has  divided  her 
during  his  life,  deserts  her  after  his  death,  we  feel  that  the 
mournful  catastrophe  is  demanded  by  the  sombre  prologue. 
The  book  may  indeed  justify,  to  some  extent,  one  of  the 
ordinary  criticisms  upon  Balzac,  that  he  showed  a  special 
subtlety  in  describing  the  sufferings  of  women.  The  ques- 
tion as  to  the  general  propriety  of  that  criticism  is  rather 
difficult  for  a  male  critic.  I  confess  to  a  certain  scepticism, 
founded  partly  on  the  general  principle  that  hardly  any 
author  can  really  describe  the  opposite  sex,  and  partly  on 
an  antipathy  which  I  cannot  repress  to  Balzac's  most  ambi- 
tious feminine  portraits. 

Eugenie  Grandet  is  perhaps  the  purest  of  his  women  ; 

VOL.    I.  Q 


2  26  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

but  then  Eugenie  Grandet  is  simply  stupid,  and  interesting 
from  her  sufferings  rather  than  her  character.     She  reminds 
us  of  some  patient  animal   of  the  agricultural  kind,  with 
bovine  softness  of  eyes  and  bovine  obstinacy  under  suffering. 
His  other  women,  though  they  are  not  simply  courtesans, 
after  the  fashion  of  some  French  writers,  seem,  as  it  were, 
to  have  a  certain  perceptible  taint  ;  they  breathe  an  un- 
wholesome atmosphere.     In  one  of  his  extravagant  humours, 
he  tells  us  that  the  most  perfect  picture  of  purity  in  existence 
is  the  Madonna  of  the  Genoese  painter,  Piola,  but  that  even 
that  celestial  Madonna  would  have  looked  like  a  Messalina  by 
the  side  of  the  Duchesse  de  Manfrigneuse.     If  the  duchess 
resembled  either  personage  in  character,  it  was  certainly 
not  the  Madonna.     And   Balzac's  best  women  give  us  the 
impression  that  they  are  courtesans  acting  the  character  of 
virgins,  and   showing  admirable  dramatic  skill  in  the  per- 
formance.    They  may  keep  up  the  part  so  obstinately  as  to 
let  the  acting  become  earnest  ;  but  even  when  they  don't 
think  of  breaking  the  seventh  commandment,  they  are  always 
thinking  about  not  breaking  it.     When  he  has  done  his  bes 
to  describe  a  thoroughly  pure  woman,  such  as  Henriette  in 
the  '  Lys  dans  !a  A^allee,'  he  cannot  refrain  from  spoiling  his 
performance  by  throwing  in   a  hint  at   the  conclusion  that, 
after  all,  she  had  a  strong  disposition  to  go  wrong,  which 
was    only  defeated   by  circumstances.     Indeed,  the  ladies 
who  in  his  pages  have  broken  loose  from  all  social  restraints, 
differ  only  in  external  circumstances  from  their  more  correct 
sisters.     Coralie,  in  the  '  Illusions  Perdues,'  is  not  so  chaste 
in  her  conduct  as  the  immaculate  Henriette,  but  is  not  a 
whit  less  delicate  in  her  tastes.     Madame  de  la  Baudraye 
deserts  her  husband,  and  lives  for  some  years  with  her  dis- 
reputable lover  at  Paris,  and  does  not  in  the  least  forfeit  the 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS  227 

sympathies  of  her  creator.     Balzac's  feminine  types  may  be 
classified   pretty   easily.     At   bottom    they   are   all   of  the 
sultana  variety — playthings  who  occasionally  venture  into 
mixing  with  the  serious  affairs  of  life,   but  then  only  on 
pain  of  being  ridiculous  (as  in  the  '  Employes,'  or  the  '  Muse 
du  Departement ')  ;  hut  properly  confined  to  their  drawing- 
rooms,  with  delicate  cajoleries  for  their  policy,  and  cunning 
instead  of  intellect.     Sometimes  they  are  cold-hearted  and 
selfish,  and  then  they  are  vicious,  making  victims  of  lovers, 
husbands,  or  fathers,  consuming  fortunes,  and   spreading 
ill-will  by  cunning  intrigues  ;  sometimes  they  are  virtuous, 
and  therefore,  according  to  Balzac's  logic,  pitiable  victims 
of  the  world.     But  their  virtue,  when  it  exists,  is  the  effect, 
not  of  lofty  principle,  but  of  a  certain  delicacy  of  taste 
corresponding  to  a  fine  organisation.     They  object  to  vice, 
because  it  is  apt  to  be  coarse  ;  and  are  perfectly  ready  to 
yield,  if  it  can   be  presented  in  such  graceful  forms  as  not 
to  shock  their  sensibilities.     Marriage  is  therefore  a  compli- 
cated intrigue  in  which  one  party  is  always  deceived,  though 
it  may  be  for  his  or  her  good.     If  you  will  be  loved,  says 
the   judicious    lady   in    the    '  Memoires    de    Deux    Jeunes 
Mariees,'  the  secret  is  not  -to  love  ;  and  the  rather  flimsy 
epigram  is  converted  into  a  great  moral  truth.     The  justifi- 
cation of  the  lady  is,  that  love  is  only  made  permanent  by 
elaborate  intrigue.     The  wife  is  to  be  always  on  the  footing 
of  a  mistress  who  can  only  preserve  her  lover  by  incessant 
and  infinitely  varied  caresses.     To  do  this,  she  must  be  her- 
self cool.     The  great  enemy  of  matrimonial  happiness  is 
satiety,  and  we  are  constantly  presented  with  an  affectionate 
wife  boring  her  husband  to  death,  and  alienating  him  by 
over-devotion.     If  one  party  is  to  be  cheated,  the  one  who 
is  freest  from  passion  will  be  the  winner  of  the  game.     As  a 

Q  2 


228  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

maxim,  after  the  fashion  of  Rochefoucauld,  this  doctrine  may 
have   enough  truth   to  be  plausible  ;    but  when  seriously 
accepted  and  made  the  substantive  moral  of  a  succession  of 
stories,  one  is  reminded  less  of  a  really  acute  observer  than 
of  a  lad  fresh  from  college  who  thinks  that  wisdom  consists 
in  an  exaggerated  cynicism.     When  ladies  of  this  variety 
break  their  hearts,  they  either  die  or  retire  in  a  picturesque 
manner  to  a  convent.     They  are  indeed  the  raw  material 
of  which  the  genuine  devote  is  made.     The  morbid  senti- 
mentality directed  to  the  lover  passes  without  perceptible 
shock  into  a  religious  sentimentality,   the  object  of  which 
is  at  least  ostensibly  different.     The  graceful  but  voluptuous 
mistress  of  the  Parisian   salon    is   developed  without   any 
violent  transition  into  the  equally  graceful  and  ascetic  nun. 
The    connection    between    the    luxurious    indulgence    of 
material  flirtations  and  religious  mysticism  is  curious,  but 
unmistakable. 

Balzac's  reputation  in  this  respect  is  founded,  not  on  his 
little  hoard  of  cynical  maxims,  which,  to  say  the  truth,  are  not 
usually  very  original,  but  on  the  vivid  power  of  describing 
the  details  and  scenery  of  the  martyrdom,  and  the  energy 
with  which  he  paints  the  emotion,  of  the  victim.     Whether 
his  women  are  very  lifelike,  or  very  varied  in  character,  may 
be  doubted  ;  but  he  has  certainly  endowed  them  with  an 
admirable  capacity  for  suffering,  and  forces  us  to  listen  sym- 
pathetically to  their  cries  of  anguish.     The  peculiar  cynicism 
implied  in  this  view  of  feminine  existence  must  be  taken  as 
part  of  his  fundamental  theory  of  society.     When  Rastignac 
has  seen  Goriot  buried,   the  ceremony  being  attended  only 
by  his  daughters'  empty  carriages,  he  climbs  to  the  highest 
part  of  the  cemetery,  and  looks  over  Paris.     As  he  contem- 
plates the  vast  buzzing  hive,  he  exclaims  solemnly,  'a  nous 


BALZAC S  NOVELS  229 

deux  maintenant  !  '  'I'hc  world  is  before  him  ;  he  is  to 
fight  his  way  in  future  without  remorse.  Accordingly, 
Balzac's  view  of  society  is,  that  it  is  a  masquerade  of 
devils,  engaged  in  tormenting  a  few  wandering  angels.  That 
society  is  not  what  Balzac  represents  it  to  be  is  sufficiently 
proved  by  the  fact  that  society  exists  ;  as  indeed  he  is  pro- 
foundly convinced  that  its  destruction  is  only  a  question  of 
time.  It  is  rotten  to  the  core.  Lust  and  avarice  are  the 
moving  forms  of  the  world,  while  profound  and  calculating 
selfishness  has  sapped  the  base  of  all  morality.  The  type 
of  a  successful  statesman  is  De  Marsay,  a  kind  of  imaginary 
Talleyrand,  who  rules  because  he  has  recognised  the  intrinsic 
baseness  of  mankind,  and  has  no  scruples  in  turning  it  to 
account.  Vautrin,  who  is  an  open  enemy  of  society,  is  sim- 
ply De  Marsay  in  revolt.  The  weapons  with  which  he  fights 
are  distinguished  from  those  of  greater  men,  not  in  their  in- 
trinsic wickedness,  but  in  their  being  accidentally  forbidden 
by  law.  He  is  less  of  a  hypocrite,  and  scarcely  a  greater 
villain  than  his  more  prosperous  rivals.  He  ultimately  re- 
cognises the  futility  of  the  strife,  agrees  to  wear  a  mask  Uke 
his  neighbours,  and  accepts  the  congenial  duties  of  a  police 
agent.  The  secret  of  success  in  all  ranks  of  life  is  to  be 
without  scruples  of  morality,  but  exceedingly  careful  of 
breaking  the  law.  The  bankers,  Nucingen  and  Du  Tillet, 
are  merely  cheats  on  a  gigantic  scale.  They  ruin  their 
enemies  by  financiering  instead  of  picking  pockets.  Be 
wicked  if  you  would  be  successful  ;  if  possible  let  your 
wickedness  be  refined  ;  but,  at  all  events,  be  wicked. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  class  of  unsuccessful  villains,  to  be 
found  chiefly  amongst  journaHsts,  for  whom  Balzac  has  a 
special  aversion  ;  they  live,  he  tells  us,  partly  on  extortion, 
and  partly  on  the   prostitution   of  their  talents  to  gratify 


230  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

political  or  personal  animosities,  and  are  at  the  mercy  of 
the  longest  purse.  They  fail  in  life,  not  because  they  are  too 
immoral,  but  because  they  are  too  weak.  They  are  the  vic- 
tims instead  of  the  accomplices  of  more  resolute  evil-doers. 
Lucien  de  Rubempre  is  the  type  of  this  class.  Endowed 
with  surpassing  genius  and  personal  beauty,  he  goes  to 
Paris  to  make  his  fortune,  and  is  introduced  to  the  world  as 
it  is.  On  the  one  hand  is  a  little  knot  of  virtuous  men, 
called  the^mrtr/(?,whoare  working  for  posterity  and  meanwhile 
starving.  On  the  other  is  a  vast  mass  of  cheats  and  dupes. 
After  a  brief  struggle  Lucien  yields  to  temptation,  and  joins 
in  the  struggle  for  wealth  and  power.  But  he  has  not 
strength  enough  to  play  his  part.  His  head  is  turned  by  the 
flattery  of  pretty  actresses  and  scheming  publishers  :  he  is 
enticed  into  thoughtless  dissipation,  and,  after  a  brilliant  start, 
finds  that  he  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  cleverer  villains  who  sur- 
round him  ;  that  he  has  been  bought  and  sold  like  a  sheep  ; 
that  his  character  is  gone,  and  his  imagination  become  slug- 
gish ;  and,  finally,  he  has  to  escape  from  utter  ruin  by 
scarcely  describable  degradation.  He  writes  a  libel  on  one 
of  his  virtuous  friends,  who  is  forgiving  enough  to  improve 
it  and  correct  it  for  the  press.  In  order  to  bury  his  mistress, 
who  has  been  ruined  with  him,  he  has  to  raise  money  by 
grovelling  in  the  foulest  depths  of  literary  sewerage.  He  at 
last  succeeds  in  crawling  back  to  his  relations  in  the  country, 
morally  and  materially  ruined.  He  makes  another  effort  to 
rise,  backed  up  by  the  diabolical  arts  of  Vaiitrin,  and  rely- 
ing rather  on  his  beauty  than  his  ta!lents.  The  world  is 
again  too  strong  for  him,  and,  after  being  accomplice  in  the 
most  outrageous  crimes,  he  ends  appropriately  by  hanging 
himself  in  prison.  Vautrin,  as  we  have  seen,  escapes  from 
the  fate  of  his  partner  because  he  retains  coolness  enough 


BALZAC S  NOVELS  23 r 

to  practise  upon  the  vices  of  the  governing  classes.  The 
world,  in  short,  is  composed  of  three  classes — consistent  and, 
therefore,  successful  villains  ;  inconsistent  and,  therefore, 
unsuccessful  villains  ;  and  virtuous  persons  who  never  have 
a  chance  of  success,  and  enjoy  the  honours  of  starvation. 

The  provinces  differ  from  Paris  in  the  nature  of  the 
social  warfare,  but  not  in  its  morality.  Passions  are  directed 
to  meaner  objects  ;  they  are  narrower,  and  more  intense. 
The  whole  of  a  man's  faculties  are  concentrated  upon  one 
object  ;  and  he  pursues  it  for  years  with  relentless  and 
undeviating  ardour.  To  supplant  a  rival,  to  acquire  a  few 
more  acres,  to  gratify  jealousy  of  a  superior,  he  will  labour 
for  a  lifetime.  The  intensity  of  his  hatred  supplies  his  want 
of  intellect  ;  he  is  more  cunning,  if  less  far-sighted  ;  and  in 
the  contest  between  the  brilliant  Parisian  and  the  plodding 
provincial  we  generally  have  an  illustration  of  the  hare  and 
the  tortoise.  The  blind,  persistent  hatred  gets  the  better  in 
the  long  run  of  the  more  brilliant,  but  more  transitory,  pas- 
sion. The  lower  nature  here,  too^  gets  the  better  of  the 
higher  ;  and  Balzac  characteristically  delights  in  the  tragedy 
produced  by  genius  which  falls  before  cunning,  as  virtue 
almost  invariably  yields  to  vice.  It  is  only  when  the  slow 
provincial  obstinacy  happens  to  be  on  the  side  of  virtue  that 
stupidity,  doubled  with  virtue,  as  embodied  for  example 
in  two  or  three  French  Caleb  Balderstones,  generally  gets 
the  worst  of  it.  There  are  exceptions  to  this  general  rule. 
Even  Balzac  sometimes  relents.  A  reprieve  is  granted  at 
the  last  moment,  and  the  martyr  is  unbound  from  the  stake. 
But  those  catastrophes  are  not  only  exceptional,  l)ut  rather 
annoying.  We  have  been  so  prepared  to  look  for  a  sacrifice 
that  we  are  disappointed  instead  of  relieved.  If  Balzac's 
readers   could  be  consulted  during  the  last  few  pages    of 


232  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

a  novel,  I  feel  sure  that  most  thumbs  would  be  turned 
upwards,  and  the  lions  allowed  to  have  their  will  of  the 
Christians.  Perhaps  our  appetites  have  been  depraved  ; 
but  we  are  not  in  the  cue  for  a  happy  conclusion. 

I  know  not  whether  it  was  the  cause  or  the  consequence 
of  this  sentiment  that  Balzac  was  a  thorough  legitimist.  He 
does  not  believe  in  the  vitality  of  the  old  order,  any  more 
than  he  believes  in  the  truth  of  Catholicism.  But  he  regrets 
the  extinction  of  the  ancient  faiths,  which  he  admits  to  be 
unsuitable  ;  and  sees  in  their  representatives  the  only  pic- 
turesque and  really  estimable  elements  that  still  survived  in 
French  society.  He  heartily  despises  the  modern  medise- 
valists,  who  try  to  spread  a  thin  varnish  over  a  decaying 
order  ;  the  world  is  too  far  gone  in  wickedness  for  such  a 
futile  remedy.  The  old  chivalrous  sentiments  of  the  genuine 
noblesse  are  giving  way  to  the  base  chicanery  of  the  bour- 
geois who  supplant  them  :  the  peasantry  are  mean,  ava- 
ricious, and  full  of  bitter  jealousy  ;  but  they  are  triumphantly 
rooting  out  the  last  vestiges  of  feudalism.  Democracy  and 
communism  are  the  fine  names  put  forward  to  justify  the 
enmity  of  those  who  have  not,  against  those  who  have. 
Their  success  means  merely  an  approaching  'descent  of 
Niagara,'  and  the  growth  of  a  more  debasing  and  more 
materialist  form  of  despotism.  But  it  would  be  a  mistake  to 
assume  that  this  view  of  the  world  implies  that  Balzac  is  in 
a  state  of  lofty  moral  indignation.  Nothing  can  be  further 
from  the  case.  The  world  is  wicked  ;  but  it  is  fascinating. 
Society  is  very  corrupt,  it  is  true  ;  but  intensely  and  perma- 
nently amusing.  Paris  is  a  hell  ;  but  hell  is  the  only  place 
worth  living  in.  The  play  of  evil  passions  gives  infinite  sub- 
jects for  dramatic  interests.  The  financial  warfare  is  more 
diabolical  than  the  old  literal  warfare,  but  quite  as  enter- 


BALZAC S  NOVELS  233 

taining.  There  is  really  as  much  romance  connected  with 
bills  of  exchange  as  with  swords  and  lances,  and  rigging  the 
market  is  nothing  but  the  modern  form  of  lying  in  ambush, 
Goneril  and  Regan  are  triumphant ;  but  we  may  admire  the 
grace  of  their  manners  and  the  dexterity  with  which  they 
cloak  their  vices.  lago  not  only  poisons  Othello's  peace  of 
mind,  but,  in  the  world  of  Balzac,  he  succeeds  to  Othello's 
place,  and  is  universally  respected.  The  story  receives  an 
additional  flavour.  In  a  characteristic  passage,  Balzac  regrets 
that  MoHere  did  not  continue  'Tartufe.'  It  would  then 
have  appeared  how  bitterly  Orgon  regretted  the  loss  of  the 
hypocrite,  who,  it  is  said,  made  love  to  his  wife,  but  who,  at 
any  rate,  had  an  interest  in  making  things  pleasant.  Your 
conventional  catastrophe  is  a  mistake  in  art,  as  it  is  a  mis- 
representation of  facts.  Tartufe  has  a  good  time  of  it  in 
Balzac  :  instead  of  meeting  with  an  appropriate  punishment, 
he  flourishes  and  thrives,  and  we  look  on  with  a  smile  not 
altogether  devoid  of  complacency.  Shall  we  not  take  the 
world  as  it  is,  and  be  amused  at  the  '  Comedie  Humaine,' 
rather  than  fruitlessly  rage  against  it  ?  It  will  be  played 
out  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  and  we  may  as  well  adapt  our 
tastes  to  our  circumstances. 

Ought  we  to  be  shocked  at  this  extravagant  cynicism  : 
to  quote  it,  as  respectable  English  journalists  used  to  do, 
as  a  proof  of  the  awful  corruption  of  French  society,  or  to 
regard  it  as  semi-humorous  exaggeration  ?  I  can't  quite 
sympathise  with  people  who  take  Balzac  seriously.  I  cannot 
talk  about  the  remorseless  skill  with  which  he  tears  off  the 
mask  from  the  fearful  corruptions  of  modern  society,  and 
penetrates  into  the  most  hidden  motives  of  the  human  heart  ; 
nor  can  I  infer  from  his  terrible  pictures  of  feminine  suffer- 
ing that  for  every  one  of  those  pictures  a  woman's  heart  had 


234  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

been  tortured  to  death.  This,  or  something  like  tliis,  I  have 
read  ;  and  I  can  only  say  that  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it. 
Balzac,  indeed,  as  compared  with  our  respectable  romancers, 
has  the  merit  of  admitting  passions  whose  existence  we 
scrupulously  ignore  ;  and  the  further  merit  that  he  takes  a 
far  wider  range  of  sentiment,  and  does  not  hold  by  the 
theory  that  the  life  of  a  man  or  a  woman  closes  at  the  con- 
ventional end  of  a  third  volume.  But  he  is  above  all  things 
a  dreamer,  and  his  dreams  resemble  nightmares.  Power- 
fully as  his  actors  are  put  upon  the  stage,  they  seem  to  me 
to  be,  after  all,  '  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of.'  A 
genuine  observer  of  life  does  not  find  it  so  highly  spiced, 
and  draws  more  moderate  conclusions.  Balzac's  characters 
run  into  typical  examples  of  particular  passions  rather  than 
genuine  human  beings  ;  they  are  generally  monomaniacs. 
Balthazar  Claes,  who  gives  up  his  life  to  search  for  the 
philosopher's  stone,  is  closely  related  to  them  all ;  only  we 
must  substitute  for  the  philosopher's  stone  some  pet  passion, 
in  which  the  whole  nature  is  absorbed.  They  have  the  un- 
natural strain  of  mind  which  marks  the  approach  to  madness. 
It  is  not  ordinary  daylight  which  illuminates  Balzac's  dream- 
land, but  some  fantastic  combination  of  Parisian  lamps, 
which  tinges  all  the  actors  with  an  unearthly  glare,  and 
distorts  their  features  into  extravagant  forms.  The  result 
has,  as  I  have  said,  a  strange  fascination  ;  but  one  is  half- 
ashamed  of  yielding,  because  one  feels  that  it  is  due  to  the 
use  of  rather  unholy  drugs.  The  vapours  that  rise  from  his 
magic  caldron  and  shape  themselves  into  human  forms  smell 
unpleasantly  of  sulphur,  or  perhaps  of  Parisian  sewers. 

'ilie  highest  poetry,  like  the  noblest  morality,  is  the 
product  of  a  thoroughly  healthy  mind.  A  diseased  tendency 
in  one  respect  is  certain  to  make  itself  manifest  in  the  other. 


BALZAC S  NOVELS  235 

Now  Balzac,  though  he  shows  some  powers  which  are  un- 
surpassed or  unequalled,  possessed  a  mind  which,  to  put  it 
gently,  was  not  exactly  well  regulated.  He  took  a  pleasure 
in  dwelling  upon  horrors  from  which  a  healthy  imagination 
shrinks,  and  rejoiced  greatly  in  gloating  over  the  mysteries 
of  iniquity.  I  do  not  say  that  this  makes  his  work  immoral 
in  the  ordinary  sense.  Probably  few  people  who  are  likely 
to  read  Balzac  would  be  any  the  worse  for  the  study.  But, 
from  a  purely  artistic  point  of  view,  he  is  injured  by  his 
morbid  tendencies.  The  highest  triumph  of  style  is  to  say 
what  everybody  has  been  thinking  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
it  new  ;  the  greatest  triumph  of  art  is  to  make  us  see  the 
poetical  side  of  the  commonplace  Hfe  around  us.  Balzac's 
ambition  was,  doubtless,  aimed  in  that  direction.  He 
wished  to  show  that  life  in  Paris  or  at  Tours  was  as  interest- 
ing to  the  man  of  real  insight  as  any  more  ideal  region. 
In  a  certain  sense,  he  has  accomplished  his  purpose.  He 
has  discovered  food  for  a  dark  and  powerful  imagination  in 
the  most  commonplace  details  of  daily  life.  But  he  falls 
short  in  so  far  as  he  is  unable  to  represent  things  as  they 
are,  and  has  a  taste  for  impossible  horrors.  There  are 
tragedies  enough  all  round  us  for  him  who  has  eyes  to  see. 
Balzac  is  not  content  with  the  materials  at  hand,  or  rather 
he  has  a  love  for  the  more  exceptional  and  hideous  mani- 
festations. Therefore  the  '  Comedie  Humaine,'  instead  of 
being  an  accurate  picture  of  human  life,  and  appealing  to 
the  sympathies  of  all  human  beings,  is  a  collection  of  mon- 
strosities, whose  vices  are  unnatural,  and  whose  virtues  are 
rather  like  their  vices.  One  feels  that  there  is  something 
narrow  and  artificial  about  his  work.  It  is  intensely  power- 
ful, but  it  is  not  the  highest  kind  of  power.  He  makes  the 
utmost  of  the  gossip  of  a  club  smoking-room,  or  the  scandal 


236  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

of  a  drawing-room,  or  perhaps  of  a  country  public-house  ; 
but  he  represents  a  special  phase  of  manners,  and  that  not 
a  particularly  pleasant  one,  rather  than  the  more  fundamental 
and  permanent  sentiments  of  mankind.  When  shall  we  see 
a  writer  who  can  be  powerful  without  being  spasmodic,  and 
pierce  through  the  surface  of  society  without  seeking  for 
interest  in  its  foulest  abysses  ? 


'-yi 


DE  QUINCE Y 

Little  more   than  fourteen    years  ago  there  passed  from 
among  us  a  man  who  held  a  high  and  very  peculiar  position 
in  English  literature.     In  1S21  De  Quincey  first  published 
the  work  with  which   his  name  is  most  commonly  asso- 
ciated, and  at  uncertain  intervals  he  gave  tokens  to  man- 
kind of  his  continued  presence  on  earth.     What  his  life  may 
have  been  in  the  intervals  seems  to  have  been  at  times  un- 
known even  to  his  friends.     He  began  by  disappearing  from 
school  and  from  his  family,  and  seems  to  have  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  temporary  eclipses.     At  one  moment  he  dropped 
upon  his  acquaintance  from  the  clouds  ;  at  another  he  would 
vanish  into  utter  darkness  for  weeks  or  months  together. 
One  day  he  came  to  dine  with  Christopher  North — so  we 
are  told  in  the  professor's  life — was  detained  for  the  night 
by  a  heavy  storm  of  rain,  and  prolonged  his  impromptu  visit 
for  a  year.     During  that  period  his  habits  must  have  been 
rather  amazing  to  a  well-regulated  household.     His  wants, 
indeed,  were  simple,  and,  in  one  sense,  regular  ;  a  particular 
joint  of  mutton,  cut  according  to  a  certain  mathematical 
formula,  and  an  ounce  of  laudanum,  made  him  happy  for  a 
day.     But  in  the  hours  when  ordinary  beings  are  awake  he 
was   generally  to  be  found  stretched  in  profound  opium- 
slumbers  upon  a  rug  before  the  fire,  and  it  was  only  about 
two    or   three   in  the  morning  that  he  gave  unequivocal 


238  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

symptoms  of  vitality,  and  suddenly  gushed  forth  in  streams 
of  wondrous  eloquence  to  the  supper  parties  detained  for  the 
purpose  of  witnessing  the  display.  Between  these  irregular 
apparitions  we  are  lastly  given  to  understand  that  his  life 
was  so  strange  that  its  details  would  be  incredible.  What 
these  incredible  details  may  have  been,  I  have  no  means  of 
knowing.  It  is  enough  that  he  was  a  strange  unsubstantial 
being,  flitting  uncertainly  about  in  the  twilight  regions  of 
society,  emerging  by  fits  and  starts  into  visibility,  afflicted 
with  a  general  vagueness  as  to  the  ordinary  duties  of  man- 
kind, and  generally  taking  much  more  opium  than  was  good 
for  him.  He  tells  us,  indeed,  that  he  broke  off  his  over- 
mastering habit  by  vigorous  efforts  ;  as  he  also  tells  us  that 
opium  is  a  cure  for  most  grievous  evils,  and  especially 
saved  him  from  an  early  death  by  consumption.  It  is  plain 
enough,  however,  that  he  never  really  refrained  for  any 
length  of  time  ;  and  perhaps  we  should  congratulate  our- 
selves on  a  propensity,  unfortunate,  it  may  be,  for  its 
victim,  but  leading  to  the  Confessions  as  one  collateral 
result. 

The  life  of  De  Quincey  by  "  H.  A.  Page,"  published  since 
this  was  written,  has  removed  much  of  the  mystery  ;  and  it 
has  also  done  much  to  raise  in  some  respects  our  estimate 
of  his  character.  With  all  his  weaknesses  De  Quincey  un- 
doubtedly was  a  man  who  could  excite  love  as  well  as  pity. 
Incapable,  to  a  grotesque  degree,  of  anything  like  business, 
he  did  his  best  to  discharge  domestic  duties  ;  he  had  a 
punctilious  sense  of  honour,  and  got  himself  into  difficulties 
by  a  generosity  which  was  certainly  not  corrected  by  the 
virtue  of  prudence.  But  I  will  not  attempt  to  sum  up  the 
facts,  for  which,  as  for  a  higher  estimate  than  I  can  subscribe 
of  his  intellectual  position,   I  gladly  refer  to  his  biography. 


DE   QUINCE Y  239 

I  have  only  to  do  with  the  De  Quincey  of  books  which 
have  a  singular  fascination.  De  Quincey  himself  gives 
thanks  for  four  circumstances.  He  rejoices  that  his  lot 
was  cast  in  a  rustic  solitude  ;  that  that  solitude  was  in 
England  ;  that  his  '  infant  feelings  \yere  moulded  by  the 
gentlest  of  sisters,'  instead  of  '  horrid  pugilistic  brothers  ; ' 
and  that  he  and  his  were  members  of  '  a  pure,  holy,  and  ' 
(the  last  epithet  should  be  emphasised) '  magnificent  Church. 
The  thanksgiving  is  characteristic,  for  it  indicates  his  naive 
conviction  that  his  admiration  was  due  to  the  intrinsic  merits 
of  the  place  and  circumstances  of  his  birth,  and  not  to  the 
accident  that  they  were  his  own.  It  would  be  useless  to 
inquire  whether  a  more  bracing  atmosphere  and  a  less  re- 
tired spot  might  have  been  more  favourable  to  his  talents  ; 
but  we  may  trace  the  influence  of  these  conditions  of  his 
early  hfe  upon  his  subsequent  career. 

De  Quincey  implicitly  puts  forward  a  claim  which  has 
been  accepted  by  all  competent  critics.  They  declare,  and 
he  tacitly  assumes,  that  he  is  a  master  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. He  claims  a  sort  of  infallibility  in  deciding  upon 
the  precise  use  of  words  and  the  merits  of  various  styles. 
But  he  explicitly  claims  something  more.  He  declares  that 
he  has  used  language  for  purposes  to  which  it  has  hardly 
been  applied  by  any  prose  writers.  The  '  Confessions  of  an 
Opium-eater '  and  the  '  Suspiria  de  Profundis '  are,  he  tells 
us,  '  modes  of  impassioned  prose,  ranging  under  no  prece- 
dents that  I  am  aware  of  in  any  literature.'  The  only  con- 
fessions that  have  previously  made  any  great  impression 
upon  the  world  are  those  of  St.  Augustine  and  of  Rousseau  ; 
but,  with  one  short  exception  in  St.  Augustine,  neither  of 
those  compositions  contains  any  passion,  and,  therefore,  De 


240  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

Quincey  stands  absolutely  alone  as  the  inventor  and  sole 
performer  on  a  new  musical  instrument — for  such  an  instru- 
ment is  the  English  language  in  his  hands.     He  belongs  to 
a  genus  in  which  he  is  the  only  individual.     The  novelty 
and  the  difficulty  of  the  task  must  be  his  apology  if  he  fails, 
and  causes  of  additional  glory  if  he  succeeds.     He  alone  of 
all  human  beings  who  have  written  since  the  world  began, 
has  entered  a  path,  which  the  absence  of  rivals  proves  to  be 
encumbered  with  some  unusual  obstacles.     The  accuracy 
and  value  of  so  bold  a  claim  require  a  short  examination. 
After  all,  every  writer,  however  obscure,  may  contrive  by  a 
judicious  definition  to  put  himself  into  a  solitary  class.     He 
has  some  peculiarities  which  distinguish  him  from  all  other 
mortals.     He  is  the  only  journalist  who  writes  at  a  given 
epoch  from  a  particular  garret  in  Grub  Street,  or  the  only 
poet  who  is  exactly  six  feet  high  and  measures  precisely  forty- 
two  inches  round  the  chest.     Any  difference  whatever  may 
be  applied  to  purposes  of  classification,  and  the  question  is 
whether  the  difference  is,  or  is  not,  of  much  importance. 
By   examining,    therefore,    the   propriety  of  De  Quincey's 
view  of  his  own  place  in  literature,  we  shall  be  naturally  led 
to  some  valuation  of  his  distinctive   merits.     In  deciding 
whether  a  bat  should  be  classed  with  birds  or  beasts,  we  have 
to  determine  the  nature  of  the  beast  and  the  true  theory  of 
his  wings.     And  De  Quincey,  if  the  comparison  be  not  too 
quaint,  is  like  the  bat,  an  ambiguous  character,  rising  on  the 
wings  of  prose  to  the  borders  of  the  true  poetical  region. 

Ue  Quincey,  then,  announces  himself  as  an  impassioned 
writer,  as  a  writer  in  impassioned  prose,  and,  finally,  as  apply- 
ing impassioned  prose  to  confessions.  The  first  question 
suggested  by  this  assertion  concerns  the  sense  of  the  word 
'  impassioned.'     There  is  very  little  of  what  one  ordinarily 


DE   QUINCEY  241 

means    by    passion    in    ihc     Confessions     or     elsewhere. 
There  are  no  explosions  of  political  wrath,  such  as  animate 
the  '  Letters  on  a  Regicide  Peace,'  or  of  a  deep  religious 
emotion,  which  breathes  through  many  of  our  greatest  prose 
writers.     The  language  is  undoubtedly  a  vehicle  for  senti- 
ments of  a  certain  kind,    but  hardly  of  that  burning  and 
impetuous  order  which  we  generally  indicate  by  impassioned. 
It  is  deep,  melancholy  reverie,  not  concentrated  essence  of 
emotion ;  and   the   epithet   fails    to   indicate   any   specific 
difference  between  himself  and  many  other  writers.     The 
real  peculiarity  is  not  in  the  passion  expressed,  but  in  the 
mode  of  expressing  it.     De  Quincey  resembles  the  story- 
tellers mentioned  by  some   Eastern  travellers.     So   extra- 
ordinary is  their  power  of  face,  and  so  skilfully  modulated 
are  the  inflections  of  their  voices,  that  even  a  European, 
ignorant   of  the   language,  can   follow   the   narrative  with 
absorbing  interest.     One  may  fancy  that  if  De  Quincey's 
language  were  emptied  of  all  meaning  whatever,  the  mere 
Sound  of  the  words  would    move  us,  as    the  lovely   word 
Mesopotamia  moved   Whitefield's  hearer.     The   sentences 
are  so  delicately  balanced,  and  so  skilfully  constructed,  that 
his  finer  passages  fix  themselves  in    the    memory  without 
the  aid  of  metre.     Humbler  writers  are  content  if  they  can 
get  through  a  single  phrase  without  producing  a  decided 
jar.     They  aim  at  keeping  up  a  steady  jog-trot,  which  shall 
not  give  actual  pain  to  the  jaws  of  the  reader.     They  no 
more  think  of  weaving  whole  paragraphs  or  chapters  into 
complex  harmonies,  than  an  ordinary  pedestrian  of  '  going 
to  church  in  a  galliard  and  coming  home  in   a   coranto.' 
Even  our  great  writers  generally  settle  down  to  a  stately  but 
monotonous  gait,  after  the  fashion  of  Johnson  or  Gibbon, 
or  are  content  with  adopting  a  style   as    transparent   and 
VOL.   I.  R 


242  HOURS  JN  A    LIBRARY 

inconspicuous   as   possible.     Language,   according   to   the 
common     phrase,     is    the    dress    of    thought ;    and    that 
dress  is   the   best,  according   to   modern  canons  of  taste, 
which  attracts  least  attention  from  its  wearer.     De  Quincey 
scorns    this    sneaking    maxim    of    prudence,    and    boldly 
challenges  our  admiration  by  indulgence  in  what  he  often 
calls    '  bravura.'     His  language  deserves  a   commendation 
sometimes  bestowed  by  ladies  upon  rich  garments,  that  it  is 
capable  of  standing  up  by  itself.     The  form  is  so  admirable 
that,  for  purposes  of  criticism,  we  must  consider  it  as  some- 
thing   apart    from    the    substance.     The    most    exquisite 
passages    in    De    Quincey's  writings   are   all  more   or  less 
attempts  to  carry  out  the  idea  expressed  in  the  title  of  the 
dream  fugue.     They  are  intended  to  be  musical  compositions, 
in  which  words  have  to  play  the  part  of  notes.     They  are 
impassioned,  not  in  the   sense   of  expressing  any  definite 
sentiment,  but  because,  from  the  structure  and  combination  of 
the  sentences,  they  harmonise  with  certain  phases  of  emotion. 
Briefly,  De  Quincey  is  doing  in  prose  what  every  great 
poet   does  in  verse.     The  specific  mark  thus  indicated  is 
still  insufficient  to  give  him  a  solitary  position  among  writers. 
All  great  rhetoricians,  as  De  Quincey  defines  and  explains 
the  term,  rise  to  the  borders  of  poetry,  and  the  art  which 
has  recently  been  cultivated  among  us  under  the  name  of 
word-painting  may  be  more  fitly  described  as  an  attempt  to 
produce   poetical  effects  without  the  aid  of  metre.     From 
most  of  the  writers  described  under  this  rather  unpleasant 
phrase  he  differs  by  the  circumstance,  that  his  art  is  more 
nearly  allied  to  music  than  to  painting.     Or,  if  compared  to 
any  painters,  it  must  be  to  those  who  care  comparatively 
little  for  distinct  portraiture  or  dramatic  interest.     He  re- 
sembles rather  the  school  which  is  satisfied  by  contemplating 


DE   QUINCE Y  243 

gorgeous  draperies,  and  graceful  limbs  and  long  processions 
of  imposing  figures,  without  caring  to  interpret  the  meaning 
of  their  works,  or  to  seek  for  more  than  the  harmonious 
arrangement  of  form  and  colour.  In  other  words,  his  prose- 
poems  should  be  compared  to  the  paintings  which  aim  at 
an  effect  analogous  to  that  of  stately  pieces  of  music.  Milton 
is  the  poet  whom  he  seems  to  regard  with  the  sincerest 
admiration ;  and  he  apparently  wishes  to  emulate  the 
majestic  rhythm  of  the  '  God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England.' 
Or  we  may,  perhaps,  admit  some  analogy  between  his  prose 
and  the  poetry  of  Keats,  though  it  is  remarkable  that  he 
speaks  with  very  scant  appreciation  of  his  contemporary. 
The  '  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,'  with  its  marvellous  beauty  of 
versification  and  the  dim  associations  half-consciously 
suggested  by  its  language,  surpasses,  though  it  resembles, 
some  of  De  Quincey's  finest  passages  ;  and  the  '  Hyperion  ' 
might  have  been  translated  into  prose  as  a  fitting  companion 
for  some  of  the  opium  dreams.  It  is  in  the  success  with  which 
he  produces  such  effects  as  these  that  De  Quincey  may 
fairly  claim  to  be  unsurpassed  in  our  language.  Pompous 
(if  that  word  may  be  used  in  a  good  sense)  declamation 
in  prose,  where  the  beauty  of  the  thought  is  lost  in  the 
splendour  of  the  style,  is  certainly  a  rare  literary  product. 
Of  the  great  rhetoricians  whom  De  Quincey  quotes  in  the 
Essay  on  Rhetoric  just  noticed,  such  men  as  Burke  and 
Jeremy  Taylor  lead  us  to  forget  the  means  in  the  end. 
They  sound  the  trumpet  as  a  warning,  not  for  the  mere 
delight  in  its  volume  of  sound.  Perhaps  his  afifinity  to  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  is  more  obvious  ;  and  one  can  understand 
the  admiration  which  he  bestows  upon  the  opening  bar  of  a 
passage  in  the  Urn-burial : — '  Now  since  these  bones  have 
rested  quietly  in  the  grave  under  the  drums  and  tramplings 

R  2 


244  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

of  three  conquests,'  &c.  '  What  a  melodious  ascent,'  he 
exclaims,  '  as  of  a  prelude  to  some  impassioned  requiem 
breathing  from  the  pomps  of  earth  and  from  the  sanctities  of 
the  grave  !  What  a  flncius  decumanus  of  rhetoric  !  Time 
expounded,  not  by  generations  or  centuries,  but  by  vast 
periods  of  conquests  and  dynasties  ;  by  cycles  of  Pharaohs 
and  Ptolemies,  Antiochi  and  Arsacides  !  And  these  vast 
successions  of  time  distinguished  and  figured  by  the  uproars 
which  revolve  at  their  inaugurations  ;  by  the  drums  and 
tramplings  rolling  overhead  upon  the  chambers  of  forgotten 
dead — the  trepidations  of  time  and  mortality  vexing,  at 
secular  intervals,  the  everlasting  sabbaths  of  the  grave  ! ' 

The  commentator  is  seeking  to  eclipse  the  text,  and  his 
words  are  at  once  a  description  and  an  example  of  his  own 
most  characteristic  rhetoric.  Wordsworth  once  uttered  an 
aphorism  which  De  Quincey  repeats  with  great  admiration  : 
that  language  is  not,  as  I  have  just  said,  the  dress,  but  '  the 
incarnation  of  thought.'  But  though  acceptmg  and  en- 
forcing the  doctrine  by  showing  that  the  '  mixture  is  too 
subtle,  the  intertexture  too  ineffable '  to  admit  of  expression,  he 
condemns  the  style  which  is  the  best  illustration  of  its  truth. 
He  is  very  angry  with  the  admirers  of  Swift ;  De  Foe  and 
'  many  hundreds  '  of  others  wrote  something  quite  as  good  ; 
it  only  wanted  '  plain  good  sense,  natural  feeling,  unpretend- 
ingness,  some  little  scholarly  practice  in  putting  together 
the  clockwork  of  sentences,  and,  above  all,  the  advantage  of 
an  appropriate  subject.'  Could  Swift,  he  asks,  have  written 
a  pendant  to  passages  in  Sir  W.  Raleigh,  or  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  or  Jeremy  Taylor?  He  would  have  cut  the  same 
figure  as  '  a  forlorn  scullion  from  a  greasy  eating-house  at 
Rotterdam,  if  suddenly  called  away  in  vision  to  act  as  sene- 
schal to  the  festival  of  Belshazzar  the  King,  before  a  thou- 


DE   QUINCEY  245 

sand  of  his  lords.'  And  what,  we  may  retort,  would  Taylor, 
or  Browne,  or  De  Quincey  himself,  have  done,  had  one  of 
them  been  wanted  to  write  down  the  project  of  Wood's  half- 
pence in  Ireland  ?  He  would  have  resembled  a  king  in  his 
coronation  robes  compelled  to  lead  a  forlorn  hope  up  the 
scaling  ladders.  The  fact  is,  that  Swift  required  for  his 
style  not  only  the  plain  good  sense  and  other  rare  qualities 
enumerated,  but  pungent  humour,  quick  insight,  deep  pas- 
sion, and  general  power  of  mind,  such  as  is  given  to  few 
men  in  a  century.  But,  as  in  his  case  the  thought  is  really 
incarnated  in  the  language,  we  cannot  criticise  the  style 
separately  from  the  thoughts,  or  we  can  only  assign,  as  its 
highest  merit,  its  admirable  fitness  for  producing  the  desired 
effect.  It  would  be  wrong  to  invert  De  Quincey's  censure, 
and  blame  him  because  his  gorgeous  robes  are  not  fitted 
for  more  practical  purposes.  To  everything  there  is  a  time  ; 
for  plain  English,  and  for  De  Quincey's  highly-wrought 
passages. 

It  would  be  difficult  or  impossible,  and  certainly  it  would 
be  superfluous,  to  define  with  any  precision  the  peculiar 
flavour  of  De  Quincey's  style.  A  few  specimens  would  do 
more  than  any  description  ;  and  De  Quincey  is  too  well 
known  to  justify  quotation.  It  may  be  enough  to  notice  that 
most  of  his  brilliant  performances  are  variations  on  the  same 
theme.  He  appeals  to  our  terror  of  the  infinite,  to  the  shrink- 
ing of  the  human  mind  before  astronomical  distances  and 
geological  periods  of  time.  Hepaintsvastperspectives,  open- 
ing in  long  succession,  till  we  grow  dizzy  in  the  contemplation. 
The  cadence  of  his  style  suggests  sounds  echoing  each  other, 
and  growing  gradually  fainter,  till  they  die  away  into  infinite 
distance.  Two  great  characteristics,  he  tells  us,  of  his  opium 
dreams  were  a  deep-seated  melancholy  and  an  exaggeration 


246  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

of  the  things  of  space  and  time.  Nightly  he  descended 
'  into  chasms  and  sunless  abysses,  depths  below  depths, 
from  which  it  seemed  hopeless  that  he  could  ever  reascend.' 
He  saw  buildings  and  landscapes  '  in  proportion  so  vast  as 
the  human  eye  is  not  fitted  to  receive.'  He  seemed  to  live 
ninety  or  a  hundred  years  in  a  night,  and  even  to  pass 
through  periods  far  beyond  the  limits  of  human  existence. 
Melancholy  and  an  awe-stricken  sense  of  the  vast  and  vague 
are  the  emotions  which  he  communicates  with  the  greatest 
power ;  though  the  melancholy  is  too  dreamy  to  deserve  the 
name  of  passion,  and  the  terror  of  the  infinite  is  not  ex- 
plicitly connected  with  any  religious  emotion.  It  is  a  proof 
of  the  fineness  of  his  taste,  that  he  scarcely  ever  falls  into 
bombast  ;  we  tremble  at  his  audacity  in  accumulating  gor- 
geous phrases  ;  but  we  confess  that  he  is  justified  by  the 
result.  The  only  exception  that  I  can  remember  is  the 
passage  in  '  The  English  Mailcoach,'  where  his  exaggerated 
patriotism  leads  him  into  what  strikes  me  at  least  as  a  rather 
vulgar  bit  of  claptrap.  If  any  reader  will  take  the  trouble  to 
compare  De  Quincey's  account  of  a  kind  of  anticipation  of 
the  Balaclava  charge  at  the  battle  of  Talavera,  with  Napier's 
description  of  the  same  facts,  he  will  be  amused  at  the 
distortion  of  history  ;  but  whatever  the  accuracy  of  the  state- 
ments, one  is  a  little  shocked  at  finding  '  the  inspiration  of 
God '  attributed  to  the  gallant  dragoons  who  were  cut  to  pieces 
on  that  occasion,  as  other  gallant  men  have  been  before  and 
since.  The  phrase  is  overcharged,  and  inevitably  suggests 
a  cynical  reaction  of  mind.  The  ideas  of  dragoons  and 
inspiration  do  not  coalesce  so  easily  as  might  be  wished  ; 
but,  with  this  exception,  I  think  that  his  purple  patches  are 
almost  irreproachable,  and  may  be  read  and  re-read  with 
increasing  delight.     T  know  of  no  other  modern  writer  who 


DE   QUINCE V  247 

has  soared  into  the  same  regions  with  so  uniform  and  easy 
a  flight. 

The  question  is  often  raised  how  far  the  attempt  to 
produce  by  one  art  effects  specially  characteristic  of  another 
can  be  considered  as  legitimate  ;  whether,  for  example,  a 
sculptor,  when  encroaching  upon  the  province  of  the 
painter,  or  a  prose  writer  attempting  to  rival  poets,  may  not 
be  summarily  condemned.  The  answer  probably  would  be 
that  a  critic  who  lays  down  such  rules  is  erecting  himself 
into  a  legislator,  when  he  should  be  a  simple  observer. 
Success  justifies  itself:  and  when  De  Quincey  obtains,  with- 
out the  aid  of  metre,  graces  which  few  other  writers  have 
won  by  the  same  means,  it  is  all  the  more  creditable  to  De 
Quincey.  A  certain  presumption,  however,  remains  in  such 
cases,  that  the  failure  to  adopt  the  ordinary  methods  implies 
a  certain  deficiency  of  power.  If  we  ask  why  De  Quincey, 
who  trenched  so  boldly  upon  the  peculiar  province  of  the 
poet,  yet  failed  to  use  the  poetical  form,  there  is  one  very 
obvious  answer.  He  has  one  intolerable  fault,  a  fault  which 
has  probably  done  more  than  any  other  to  diminish  his  popu- 
larity, and  which  is,  of  all  faults,  most  diametrically  opposed 
to  poetical  excellence.  He  is  utterly  incapable  of  concen- 
tration. He  is,  from  the  very  principles  on  which  his  style 
is  constructed,  the  most  diffuse  of  writers.  Other  men  will 
pack  half  a  dozen  distinct  propositions  into  a  sentence,  and 
care  little  if  they  are  somewhat  crushed  and  distorted  in  the 
process.  De  Quincey  insists  upon  putting  each  of  them 
separately,  smoothing  them  out  elaborately,  till  not  a  wrinkle 
disturbs  their  uniform  surface,  and  then  presenting  each  of 
them  for  our  acceptance  with  a  placid  smile.  His  com- 
mendable desire  for  lucidity  of  expression  makes  him  ner 
vously  anxious  to  avoid  any  complexity  of  thought.     Each 


248  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

step  of  his  argument,  each  shade  of  meaning,  and  each 
fact  in  his  narrative,  must  have  its  own  separate  embodi- 
ment ;  and  every  joint  and  connecting  hnk  must  be  care- 
fully and  accurately  defined.  The  clearness  is  won  at  a 
price.  There  is  some  advantage  in  this  elaborate  method 
of  dissecting  out  every  distinct  fibre  and  ramification  of  an 
argument.  But,  on  the  whole,  one  is  apt  to  remember  that 
life  is  limited,  and  that  there  are  some  things  in  this  world 
which  must  be  taken  for  granted.  If  a  man's  boyhood  fill 
two  volumes,  and  if  one  of  these  (though  under  unfavour- 
able circumstances)  took  six  months  to  revise,  it  seems  pro- 
bable that  in  later  years  he  would  have  taken  longer  to 
record  events  than  to  live  them.  No  autobiography  written 
on  such  principles  could  ever  reach  even  the  middle  life 
of  the  author.  Take  up,  for  example,  the  first  volume  of 
his  collected  works.  Why,  on  the  very  first  page,  having 
occasion  to  mention  Christendom  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
should  he  provide  against  some  eccentric  misconception  by 
telling  us  that  it  did  not,  at  that  time,  include  any  part  of 
America  ?  Why  should  it  take  considerably  more  than  a  page 
to  explain  that  when  a  schoolmaster  begins  lessons  punctu- 
ally, and  leaves  off  too  late,  there  will  be  an  encroachment 
on  the  hours  of  play  ?  Or  two  pages  to  describe  how  a 
porter  dropped  a  portmanteau  on  a  flight  of  stairs,  and 
didn't  waken  a  schoolmaster?  Or  two  more  to  account  for 
the  fact  that  he  asked  a  woman  the  meaning  of  the  noise 
produced  by  the  '  bore  '  in  the  Dee,  instead  of  waiting  till 
she  spoke  to  him  ?  Impassioned  prose  may  be  a  very  good 
thing  ;  but  when  its  current  is  arrested  by  such  incessant 
stoppages,  and  the  beauty  of  the  Enghsh  language  displayed 
by  showing  how  many  faultless  sentences  may  be  expended 
on  an  exhaustive  description  of  irrelevant  trifles,  the  human 


DE    QUINCE  Y  249 

mind  becomes  recalcitrant.  A  man  may  become  prolix 
from  the  fulness  or  fervency  of  his  mind  ;  but  prolixity  pro- 
duced by  this  finical  minuteness  of  language,  ends  by  dis- 
tressing one's  nerves.  It  is  the  same  sense  of  irritation  as 
is  produced  by  waiting  for  the  tedious  completion  of  an 
elaborate  toilette,  and  one  is  rather  tempted  to  remember 
Artemus  Ward's  description  of  the  Fourth  of  July  oration, 
which  took  four  hours  '  to  pass  a  given  point.' 

This  peculiarity  of  his  style  is  connected  with  other 
qualities  upon  which  a  great  deal  of  eulogy  has  been 
bestowed.  There  are  two  faculties  in  which,  so  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  no  man,  woman,  or  child  ever  admits  his 
or  her  own  deficiency.  The  driest  of  human  beings  will  boast 
of  their  sense  of  humour  ;  and  the  most  perplexed,  of  their 
logical  acuteness.  De  Quincey  has  been  highly  praised, 
both  as  a  humorist  and  as  a  logician.  He  believed  in  his 
own  powers,  and  exhibits  them  rather  ostentatiously.  He 
says,  pleasantly  enough,  but  not  without  a  substratum  of 
real  conviction,  that  he  is  'a  doctor  seraphicus,  and  also 
inexpugnabilis  upon  quillets  of  logic'  I  confess  that  I  am 
generally  sceptical  as  to  the  merits  of  infallible  dialecticians, 
because  I  have  observed  that  a  man's  reputation  for  inexor- 
able logic  is  generally  in  proportion  to  the  error  of  his  con- 
clusions. A  logician,  in  popular  estimation,  seems  to  be  one 
who  never  shrinks  from  a  reductio  ad absiirdum.  His  merits 
are  measured,  not  by  the  accuracy  of  his  conclusions,  but 
by  the  distance  which  separates  them  from  his  premisses. 
The  explanation  doubtless  lies  in  the  general  impression 
that  logic  is  concerned  with  words  and  not  with  things. 
There  is  a  vague  belief  that  by  skilfully  linking  syllogisms 
you  can  form  a  chain  sufficiently  strong  to  cross  the  pro- 
foundest  abyss,  and  which  will  need  no  test  of  observation 


250  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

and  verification.  A  dexterous  performer,  it  is  supposed, 
might  pass  from  one  extremity  of  the  universe  to  the  other 
without  ever  touching  ground  ;  and  people  do  not  observe 
that  the  refusal  to  draw  an  inference  may  be  just  as  great 
a  proof  of  logical  skill  as  ingenuity  in  drawing  it.  Now  De 
Quincey's  claim  to  infaUibility  would  be  plausible,  if  we  still 
believed  that  to  define  words  accurately  is  the  same  thing 
as  to  discover  facts,  and  that  binding  them  skilfully  together 
is  equivalent  to  reasoning  securely.  He  is  a  kind  of 
rhetorical  Euclid.  He  makes  such  a  flourish  with  his 
apparatus  of  axioms  and  definitions  that  you  do  not  suspect 
any  lurking  fallacy.  He  is  careful  to  show  you  the  minutest 
details  of  his  argumentative  mechanism.  Each  step  in  the 
process  is  elaborately  and  separately  set  forth  ;  you  are  not 
assumed  to  know  anything,  or  to  be  capable  of  supplying 
any  links  for  yourself  ;  it  shall  not  even  be  taken  for  granted 
without  due  notice  that  things  which  are  equal  to  a  third 
thing  are  equal  to  each  other ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that 
few  people  venture  to  question  processes  which  seem  to  be  so 
plainly  set  forth,  and  to  advance  by  such  a  careful  development. 
When,  indeed,  De  Quincey  has  a  safe  guide,  he  can  put 
an  argument  with  admirable  clearness.  The  expositions 
of  political  economy,  for  example,  are  clear  and  ingenious, 
though  even  here  I  may  quote  Mr.  Mill's  remark,  that  he 
should  have  imagined  a  certain  principle — obvious  enough 
when  once  stated — to  have  been  familiar  to  all  economistsj 
'  if  the  instance  of  Mr.  De  Quincey  did  not  prove  that  the 
complete  non-recognition  and  implied  denial  of  it  are 
compatible  with  great  intellectual  ingenuity  and  close 
intimacy  with  the    subject-matter.' '     Upon  this  question, 

'   II  is  curious  thai   De   Quincey,   in   his  Essay  on  Style,   explains 
that   political  economy,   and  especially  the  doctrine  of  value,  is  one  of 


DE   QUINCE Y  251 

Mr.  Shadworth  Hodgson  has  maintained  that  De  Quincey 
was  in  the  right  as  against  Mill,  and  I  cannot  here  argue  the 
point.  I  think,  however,  that  all  economists  would  admit 
that  De  Quincey's  merits  were  confined  to  an  admirable 
exposition  of  another  man's  reasoning,  and  included  no 
substantial  addition  to  the  inquiry.  Certainly  he  does  not 
count  as  one  of  those  whose  writings  marked  any  epoch  in 
the  development  of  the  science — if  it  be  a  science.  Admir- 
able skill  of  expression  is,  indeed,  no  real  safeguard  against 
logical  blunders  ;  and  I  will  venture  to  say  that  De  Quincey 
rarely  indulges  in  this  ostentatious  logical  precision  without 
plunging  into  downright  fallacies.  I  will  take  two  instances. 
The  first  is  trifling,  but  characteristic.  Poor  Dr.  Johnson 
used  to  reproach  himself,  as  De  Quincey  puts  it,  '  with  lying 
too  long  in  bed.'     How  absurd  !  is  the  comment. 

The  Doctor  got  up  at  eleven  because  he  went  to  bed  at 
three.  If  he  had  gone  to  bed  at  twelve,  could  he  not  easily 
have  got  up  at  eight  ?  The  remark  would  have  been  sound 
in  form,  though  a  quibble  in  substance,  if  Johnson  had  com- 
plained of  lying  in  bed  '  too  late  ; '  but  as  De  Quincey  him- 
self speaks  of  '  too  long  '  instead  of  '  too  late,'  it  is  an  obvious 
reply  that  eight  hours  are  of  the  same  length  at  every  period 
of  the  day.  The  great  logician  falls  into  another  charac- 
teristic error  in  the  same  paragraph.  Dr.  Johnson,  he  says, 
was  not  '  indolent  ; '  but  he  adds  that  Johnson  '  had  a 
morbid  predisposition  to  decline  labour  from  his  scrofulous 
habit  of  body,'  which  was  increased  by  over-eating  and  want 
of  exercise.  It  is  a  cruel  mode  of  vindication  to  say  that 
you  are  not  indolent,  but  only  predisposed  by  a  bad  consti- 
tution and  bad  habits  to  decline  labour  ;  but  the  advantage 

those  subjects  which  cannot  be  satisfactorily  treated  in  dialogue — the 
very  form  which  he  chose  to  adopt  for  that  particular  purpose. 


252  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

of  accurate  definition  is,  that  you  can  knock  a  man  down 
with  one  hand,  and  pick  him  up  with  the  other. 

To  take  a  more  serious  case.  De  Quincey  undertakes 
to  refute  Hume's  memorable  argument  against  miracles. 
There  are  few  better  arenas  for  intellectual  combats,  and  De 
Quincey  has  in  it  an  unusual  opportunity  for  display.  He 
is  obviously  on  his  mettle.  He  comes  forward  with  a  whole 
battery  of  propositions,  carefully  marshalled  in  strategical 
order,  and  supported  by  appropriate  '  lemmas.'  One  of  his 
arguments,  whether  cogent  or  not,  is  that  Hume's  objection 
will  not  apply  to  the  evidence  of  a  multitude  of  witnesses. 
Now,  a  conspicuous  miracle,  he  says,  can  be  produced  rest- 
ing on  such  evidence,  to  wit,  that  of  the  thousands  fed  by  a 
few  loaves  and  fishes.  The  simplest  infidel  will,  of  course, 
reply  that  as  these  thousands  of  witnesses  cannot  be  pro- 
duced, the  evidence  open  to  us  reduces  itself  to  that  of  the 
Evangelists.  De  Quincey  recollects  this,  and  replies  to  it 
in  a  note.  '  Yes,'  he  says,  '  the  Evangelists  certainly  ;  and, 
let  us  add,  all  those  contemporaries  to  whom  the  Evangelists 
silently  appealed.  These  make  up  the  "  multitude  "  con- 
templated in  the  case  '  under  consideration.  That  is,  to 
make  up  the  multitude,  you  have  to  reckon  as  witnesses  all 
those  persons  who  did  not  contradict  the  '  silent  appeal,'  or 
whose  contradiction  has  not  reached  us.  With  such  canons 
of  criticism  it  is  hard  to  say  what  might  not  be  proved. 
When  a  man  with  a  great  reputation  for  learning  and  logical 
ability  tries  to  put  us  off  with  these  wretched  quibbles,  one 
is  fairly  bewildered.  He  shows  an  ignorance  of  the  real 
strength  and  weakness  of  the  position,  which,  but  for  his 
reputation,  one  would  summarily  explain  by  incapacity  for 
reasoning.  As  it  is,  we  must  suppose  that,  living  apart  from 
the  daily   l)attle  of   life,   he    had    lost    that    quick    instinct 


HE   (2UINCEY  253 

possessed  by  all  genuine  logicians  for  recognising  the  vital 
points  of  an  argument.  A  day  in  a  court  of  justice  would 
have  taught  him  more  about  evidence  than  a  month  spent 
over  Aristotle.  He  had  become  fitter  for  the  parade  of  the 
fencing-room  than  for  the  real  thrust  and  parry  of  a  duel  in 
earnest.  The  mere  rhetorical  flourish  pleases  him  as  much 
as  a  blow  at  his  antagonist's  heart.  Another  glaring  instance 
in  the  same  paper  is  his  apparent  failure  to  perceive  that 
there  is  a  difference  between  proving  that  such  a  prophecy 
as  that  announcing  the  fall  of  Babylon  was  fulfilled,  and 
proving  that  it  was  supernaturally  inspired.  Hume,  without 
a  tenth  part  of  the  logical  apparatus,  would  have  exposed 
the  fallacy  in  a  sentence.  Paley,  whom  he  never  tires  of 
treating  to  contemptuous  abuse,  was  incapable  of  such  feeble 
sophistry.  De  Quincey,  in  short,  was  a  very  able  expositor; 
but  he  was  not,  though  under  better  discipline  he  might 
probably  have  become,  a  sound  original  thinker.  He  is  an 
interpreter,  not  an  originator  of  thought.  His  skill  in 
setting  forth  an  argument  blinds  him  to  its  most  palpable 
defects.  If  language  is  a  powerful  weapon  in  his  hands,  it 
is  only  when  the  direction  of  the  blow  is  dictated  by  some 
more  manly,  if  less  ingenious,  understanding. 

Let  us  inquire,  and  it  is  a  more  delicate  question,  whether 
he  is  better  qualified  to  use  it  as  a  plaything.  He  has  a 
reputation  as  a  humorist.  The  Essay  on  Murder  con- 
sidered as  one  of  the  Fine  Arts  is  probably  the  most 
popular  of  his  writings.  The  conception  is  undoubtedly 
meritorious,  and  De  Quincey  returns  to  it  more  than  once 
in  his  other  works.  The  description  of  the  Williams  mur- 
ders is  inimitable,  and  the  execution  even  in  the  humorous 
passages  is  frequently  good.  We  may  praise  particular 
sentences  :  such  as  the  well-known  remark  that  '  if  a  man 


254  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

once  indulges  himself  in  murder,  he  comes  to  think  little  of 
robbing  ;  and  from  robbing  he  comes  next  to  drinking  and 
Sabbath-breaking  ;  and  from  that  to  incivility  and  procras- 
tination.' One  laughs  at  this  whimsical  inversion  ;  but  I 
don't  think  one  laughs  very  heartily  ;  and  certainly  one  does 
not  find,  as  in  really  deep  humour,  that  the  paradox  is  preg- 
nant with  further  meaning,  and  the  laugh  a  prelude  to  a 
more  melancholy  smile.  Many  of  the  best  things  ever  said 
are  couched  in  a  similar  form  :  the  old  remark  that  the  use 
of  language  is  the  concealment  of  thought  ;  the  saying  that 
the  half  is  greater  than  the  whole,  and  that  two  and  two 
don't  always  make  four,  are  familiar  instances  ;  but  each 
of  them  really  contains  a  profound  truth  expressed  in  a 
paradoxical  form,  which  is  a  sufficient  justification  of 
their  extraordinary  popularity.  But  if  every  inversion  of  a 
commonplace  were  humorous,  we  should  be  able  to  make 
jokes  by  machinery.  There  is  no  humour  that  I  can  see  in 
the  statement  that  honesty  is  the  worst  policy,  or  that  pro- 
crastination saves  time  ;  and  De  Quincey's  phrase,  though 
I  admit  that  it  is  amusing  as  a  kind  of  summary  of  his  essay, 
seems  to  me  to  rank  little  higher  than  an  ingenious  pun. 
It  is  a  clever  trick  of  language,  but  does  not  lead  any  further. 
Here,  too,  and  elsewhere,  the  humour  gives  us  a  certain 
impression  of  thinness.  It  is  pressed  too  far,  and  spun  out 
too  long.  Compare  De  Quincey's  mode  of  beating  out  his 
one  joke  through  pages  of  laboured  facetiousness,  with 
Swift's  concentrated  and  pungent  irony,  as  in  the  proposal 
for  eating  babies,  or  the  argument  to  prove  that  the  aboli- 
tion of  Christianity  may  be  attended  with  some  incon- 
veniences. It  is  the  difference  between  the  stiffest  of 
nautical  grogs  and  the  negus  provided  by  thoughtful 
parents  for  a  child's  evening  party.     In   some  parts  of  the 


DE   QUINCE  Y  255 

essay  De  Quincey  sinks  far  lower.  I  do  not  believe  that  in 
any  English  author  of  reputation  there  is  a  more  feeble 
piece  of  forced  fun,  than  in  the  description  of  the  fight  of 
the  amateur  in  murder  with  the  baker  at  Munich.  One 
knows  by  a  process  of  reasoning  that  the  man  is  joking  ; 
but  one  feels  inclined  to  blush,  through  sympathy  with 
a  very  clear  man  so  exposing  himself.  A  blemish  of  the 
same  kind  makes  itself  unpleasantly  obvious  at  many  points 
of  his  writings.  He  seems  to  fear  that  we  shall  find  his 
stately  and  elaborate  style  rather  too  much  for  our  nerves. 
He  is  conscious  that,  as  a  great  master  of  language,  he  can 
play  what  tricks  he  pleases,  without  danger  of  remonstrance. 
And  therefore,  he  every  now  and  then  plunges  into  slang, 
not  irreverently,  as  a  vulgar  writer  might  do,  but  of  malice 
prepense.  The  shock  is  almost  as  great  as  if  an  organist 
performing  a  solemn  tune  should  suddenly  introduce  an 
imitation  of  the  mewing  of  a  cat.  Now,  he  seems  to  say, 
you  can't  accuse  me  of  being  dull  and  pompous.  Let  me 
quote  an  instance  or  two  from  his  graver  writings.  He 
wishes  to  argue,  in  defence  of  Christianity,  that  the  ancients 
w^ere  insensible  to  ordinary  duties  of  humanity.  '  Our 
wicked  friend  Kikero,  for  instance,  who  tvas  so  bad,  but 
wrote  so  well,  who  did  such  naughty  things,  but  said  such 
pretty  things,  has  himself  noticed  in  one  of  his  letters,  with 
petrifying  coolness,  that  he  knew  of  destitute  old  women  in 
Rome  who  w^ent  without  tasting  food  for  one,  two,  or  even 
three  days.  After  making  such  a  statement,  did  Kikero  not 
tumble  downstairs  and  break  at  least  three  of  his  legs  in  his 
hurry  to  call  a  public  meeting,'  &c.  &c.  What  delicate 
humour  !  The  grave  apologist  of  Christianity  actually  calls 
Cicero,  Kikero,  and  talks  about  '  three  of  his  legs  ! '  Do 
we  not  all  explode  with  laughter  ?    A  parallel  case  occurs  in 


256  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

his  argument  about  the  Essenes  ;  where  he  grows  so  irre- 
pressibly  funny  as  to  call  Josephus  '  Mr.  Joe,'  and  addresses 
him  as  follows  :— '  Wicked  Joseph,  Usten  to  me  :  you've 
been  telling  us  a  fairy  tale  ;  and  for  my  part,  I've  no  objec- 
tion to  a  fairy  tale  in  any  situation,  because  if  one  can  make 
no  use  of  it  oneself,  always  one  knows  that  a  child  will  be 
thankful  for  it.  But  this  tale,  Mr.  Joseph,  happens  also  to 
be  a  He  ;  secondly,  a  fraudulent  lie  ;  thirdly,  a  mahcious  lie.' 
I  have  seen  this  stuff  described  as  '  scholarlike  badinage  ; ' 
but  the  only  effect  of  such  exquisite  foolery,  within  my  mind, 
is  to  persuade  one  that  a  writer  assailed  by  such  weapons, 
and  those  weapons  used  by  a  man  who  has  the  whole  re- 
sources of  the  English  language  at  his  command,  must  pro- 
bably have  been  encountering  an  inconvenient  truth.  I  will 
simply  refer  to  the  story  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  sitting  all  day 
with  one  stocking  on  and  one  off,  in  the  Casuistry  of  Roman 
Meals,  as  an  illustration  of  the  way  in  which  a  story  ought 
not  to  be  told.  Its  most  conspicuous,  though  not  its  worst 
fault,  its  extreme  length,  protects  it  from  quotation. 

It  is  strange  to  find  that  a  writer,  pre-eminently  endowed 
with  delicacy  of  ear,  and  boasting  of  the  complex  harmonies 
of  his  style,  should  condescend  to  such  an  irritating  defect. 
De  Quincey  says  of  one  of  the  greatest  masters  of  the 
humorous :— '  The  gyration  within  which  his  (Lamb's) 
sentiment  wheels,  no  matter  of  what  kind  it  may  be,  is 
always  the  shortest  possible.  It  does  not  prolong  itself,  it 
does  not  repeat  itself,  it  does  not  propagate  itself.'  And  he 
goes  on  to  connect  the  failing  with  Lamb's  utter  insensibility 
to  music,  and  indifference  to  '  the  rhythmical  in  prose  com- 
position.' The  criticism  is  a  fine  one  in  its  way,  but  it  may 
perhaps  explain  some ofDeQuincey's  shortcomings  in  Lamb's 
peculiar   sphere.     De  Quincey's   jokes   are  apt    to   repeat 


DE   QUINCE Y  2^7 

and  prolong  and  propagate  themselves,  till  they  become 
tiresome  ;  and  the  delicate  touch  of  the  true  humorist,  just 
indicating  a  half-comic,  half-pathetic  thought,  is  alien  to  De 
Quincey's  more  elaborate  style.  Yet  he  had  a  true  and 
peculiar  sense  of  humour.  That  faculty  may  be  predomi- 
nant or  latent  ;  it  may  form  the  substance  of  a  whole  book, 
as  in  the  case  of  Sterne  :  or  it  may  permeate  every  sentence, 
as  in  Carlyle's  writings  ;  or  it  may  simply  give  a  faint 
tinge,  rather  perceived  by  subsequent  analysis  than  con- 
sciously felt  at  the  time  ;  and  in  this  lowest  degree  it  fre- 
quently gives  a  certain  charm  to  De  Quincey's  writing. 
When  he  tries  overt  acts  of  wit,  he  becomes  simply  vulgar  ; 
when  he  directly  aims  at  the  humorous,  we  feel  his  hand  to 
be  rather  heavy  ;  but  he  is  occasionally  very  happy  in  that 
ironical  method,  of  which  the  Essay  on  Murder  is  the  most 
notorious  specimen.  The  best  example,  in  my  opinion,  is 
the  description  of  his  elder  brother  in  the  Autobiographical 
Sketches.  The  account  of  the  rival  kingdoms  of  Gombroon 
and  Tigrasylvania  ;  of  poor  De  Quincey's  troubles  in  getting 
rid  of  his  subjects'  tails  ;  of  his  despair  at  the  suggestion 
that  by  making  them  sit  down  for  six  hours  a  day  they 
might  rub  them  off  in  the  course  of  several  centuries  ;  of 
his  ingenious  plan  of  placing  his  unlucky  island  at  a  distance 
of  75  degrees  of  latitude  from  his  brother's  capital ;  and  of 
his  dismay  at  hearing  of  the  '  vast  horns  and  promontories' 
which  run  down  from  all  parts  of  the  hostile  dominions  to- 
wards his  unoffending  little  territory,  are  touched  with 
admirable  skill.  The  grave,  elaborate  detail  of  the  per- 
plexities of  his  childish  imagination  is  pleasant,  and  at  the 
same  time  pathetic.  When,  in  short,  by  simply  applying  his 
usual  stateliness  of  manner  to  a  subject  a  little  beneath  it  in 
dignity,  he  can  produce  the  desired  effect,  he  is  eminently 
VOL.    I.  S 


258  HOURS   IN  A   LIBRARY 

successful.  The  same  rhetoric  which  would  be  appropriate 
(to  use  his  favourite  illustration)  in  treating  the  theme  of 
'  Belshazzar  the  King  giving  a  great  feast  to  a  thousand  of 
his  lords,'  has  a  certain  piquancy,  when  for  Belshazzar  we  sub- 
stitute a  schoolboy  playing  at  monarchy.  He  is  indulging 
in  a  whimsical  masquerade,  and  the  pomp  is  assumed 
in  sport  instead  of  in  earnest.  Nobody  can  do  a  little  mock 
majesty  so  well  as  he  who  on  occasion  can  be  seriously 
majestic.  Yet  when  he  altogether  abandons  his  strong 
ground,  and  chooses  to  tumble  and  make  grimaces  before 
us,  like  an  ordinary  clown,  he  becomes  simply  offensive. 
The  great  tragedian  is  capable  on  due  occasion  of  pleasant 
burlesque  ;  but  sheer  unadulterated  comedy  is  beyond  his 
powers.  De  Quincey,  in  short,  can  parody  his  own  serious 
writing  better  than  anybody,  and  the  capacity  is  a  proof  that 
he  had  the  faculty  of  humour  ;  but  for  a  genuine  substantive 
joke^a  joke  which,  resting  on  its  own  merits,  instead  of 
being  the  shadow  of  his  serious  writing,  is  to  be  indepen- 
dently humorous — he  seems,  to  me  at  least,  to  be  generally 
insufferable. 

De  Quincey's  final  claim  to  a  unique  position  rests  on 
the  fact  that  his  '  impassioned  prose '  was  applied  to  con- 
fessions. He  compares  himself,  as  I  have  said,  to  Rousseau 
and  Augustine.  The  analogy  with  the  last  of  these  two  writers 
would,  I  should  imagine,  be  rather  difficult  to  carry  beyond 
the  first  part  of  resemblance  \  but  it  is  possible  to  make 
out  a  somewhat  closer  affinity  to  Rousseau.  In  both  cases, 
at  least,  we  have  to  deal  with  men  of  morbid  temperament, 
ruined  or  seriously  injured  by  their  utter  incapacity  for 
self-restraint.  So  far,  however,  as  their  confessions  derive 
an  interest  from  the  revelation  of  character,  Rousseau  is 
more  exciting  almost  in  the  same  proportion  as  he  confesses 


DE   QUINCE Y  259 

greater  weaknesses.  The  record  of  such  errors  by  their 
chief  actor,  and  that  actor  a  man  of  such  singular  ability, 
presents  us  with  a  strangely  attractive  problem.  De 
Quincey  has  less  to  confess,  and  is  less  anxious  to  lay  bare 
his  own  morbid  propensities.  His  story  excites  compassion; 
and,  as  in  the  famous  episode  of  'Anne,'  attracts  us  by  the 
genuine  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  feeUng.  He  was  free 
from  the  errors  which  make  some  of  Rousseau's  confessions 
loathsome,  but  he  was  also  not  the  man  to  set  fire,  like 
Rousseau,  to  the  hearts  of  a  whole  generation.  His  narrative 
is  a  delight  to  literary  students  ;  not  a  volcanic  outburst  to 
shake  the  foundations  of  society.  Nearly  all  that  he  has  to 
tell  us  is  that  he  ran  away  from  school,  spent  some  time  in 
London,  for  no  very  assignable  reason,  in  a  semi-starving 
condition,  and  then,  equally  without  reason,  surrendered  at 
discretion  to  the  respectabilities  and  went  to  Oxford  like  an 
ordinary  human  being.  It  is  no  doubt  a  proof  of  extra- 
ordinary literary  power  that  the  facts  told  with  De  Quincey's 
comment  of  rich  meditative  eloquence  become  so  fasci- 
nating. Unfortunately,  though  he  managed  to  write  recol- 
lections which  are,  in  their  way,  unique,  he  never  achieved 
anything  at  all  comparable  to  his  autobiographic  revelations, 
Vague  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  of  composing  a 
great  work  on  Political  Economy,  or  of  writing  a  still  more 
wonderful  treatise  on  the  Emendation  of  the  Human 
Intellect.  But  he  never  seems  to  have  made  any  decided 
steps  towards  the  fulfilment  of  such  dreams,  and  remained 
to  the  end  of  his  days  a  melancholy  specimen  of  wasted 
force.  There  is  nothing,  unfortunately,  very  uncommon  in 
the  story,  except  so  far  as  its  hero  was  a  man  of  genius. 
The  history  of  Coleridge  exemplifies  a  still  higher  ambition, 
resulting,  it  is  true,  in  a  much  greater  influence  upon  the 

s  2 


26o  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

thought  of  the  age,  but  aUnost  equally  sad.  Their  lives 
might  be  put  into  tracts  for  the  use  of  opium-eaters  ;  and 
whilst  there  was  still  hope  of  redeeming  them,  it  might  have 
been  worth  while  to  condemn  them  with  severity.  Indigna- 
tion is  now  out  of  place,  and  we  can  only  grieve  and  pass 
by.  When  thousands  of  men  are  drinking  themselves  to 
death  every  year,  there  is  nothing  very  strange  or  dramatic 
in  the  history  of  one  ruined  by  opium  instead  of  by  gin. 

From  De  Quincey's  writings  we  get  the  notion  of  a  man 
amiable,  but  with  an  uncertain  temper  ;  with  fine  emotions, 
but  an  utter  want  of  moral  strength  ;  and,  in  short,  of  a 
nature  of  much  delicacy  and  tenderness  retreating  into 
opium  and  the  Lake  district,  from  a  world  which  was  too 
rough  for  him.  He  uttered  in  many  fragmentary  ways  his 
views  of  philosophy  and  politics.  Whatever  their  value, 
De  Quincey  has  of  course  no  claim  to  be  an  originator. 
He  not  only  had  not  strength  to  stand  alone,  but  he 
belonged  to  a  peculiar  side-current  of  English  thought. 
He  was  the  adjective  of  which  Coleridge  was  the  substan- 
tive ;  and  if  Coleridge  himself  was  an  unsatisfactory  and 
imperfect  thinker,  his  imperfections  are  greatly  increased  in 
his  friend  and  disciple.  He  shared  that  belief  which  some 
people  have  not  yet  abandoned,  that  the  answer  to  all  our 
perplexities  is  to  be  found  in  some  of  the  mysteries  of 
German  metaphysics.  If  we  could  only  be  taught  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  reason  and  the  understanding,  the 
scales  would  fall  from  our  eyes,  and  we  should  see  that  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles  contained  the  plan  on  which  the 
universe  was  framed.  He  had  an  acquaintance,  which,  if 
his  own  opinion  were  correct,  was  accurate  and  profound, 
with  Kant's  writings,  and  had  studied  ScheUing,  Fichte,  and 
Hegel.     He  could  talk  about  concepts  and  categories  and 


DE  QUINCE Y  261 

schematisms  without  losing  his  head  amongst  those  meta- 
physical heights.     He  knew  how  by  the  theoretic  reason  to 
destroy  all  proofs  of  the  existence  ot  God,  and  then,  by 
introducing  the  practical  reason,  to  set  the  existence  of  God 
beyond  a  doubt.     He  fancied  that  he  was  able  to  translate 
the  technicalities  of  Kant  into  plain  English  ;  and  he  be- 
lieved that  when  so  translated,  they  would  prove  to  have  a 
real  and  all-important  meaning.     If  German  metaphysics  be 
a  science,  and  not  a  mere  edifice  of  moonshine  ;  and  if  De 
Quincey  had  really  penetrated  the  secrets  of  that  science, 
we  have  missed  a  chance  of  enlightenment.     As  it  is,  we 
have  little  left  except  a  collection  of  contemptuous  preju- 
dices.    De  Quincey  thought  himself  entitled  to  treat  Locke 
as  a  shallow  pretender.     The  whole  eighteenth  century  was, 
with  one  or  two  exceptions,  a  barren  wilderness   to  him. 
He   aspersed    its    reasoners,    from    Locke    to   Paley  ;    he 
scorned  its  poets  with  all  the  bitterness  of  the  school  which 
first   broke  loose  from  the  rule  of  Pope  ;  and  its  prose- 
writers,  with  the  exception  of  Burke,  were  miserable  beings 
in  his  eyes.     He  would  have  seen  with  little  regret  a  holo- 
caust of  all  the  literature  produced  in  England  between  the 
death  of  Milton  and  the  rise  of  Wordsworth.     Naturally,  he 
hated  an  infidel  with  that  kind  of  petulant  bitterness  which 
possesses  an  old  lady  in  a  country  village,  who  has   just 
heard  that  some  wicked  people  dispute  the  story  of  Balaam's 
ass.     And,  as  a  corollary,  he  combined  the  whole  French 
people  in  one  sweeping  censure,  and  utterly  despised  their 
morals,   manners,  literature,  and  political  principles.      He 
was  a  John  Bull,  as  far  as  a  man  can  be  who  is  of  weakly, 
nervous  temperament,  and  believes  in  Kant. 

One  or  two  illustrations  may  be  given  of  the  force  of 
these  effeminate  prejudices  ;  and  it  is  to  be  remarked  with 


262  HOURS   IN  A   LIBRARY 

regret  that  they  are  specially  injurious  in  a  department 
where  he  otherwise  had  eminent  merits,  that,  namely,  of 
literary  criticism.  Any  man  who  lived  in  the  eighteenth 
century  was  prima  fade  a  fool  ;  if  a  free  thinker,  his  case 
was  all  but  hopeless  ;  but  if  a  French  free  thinker,  it  was 
desperate  indeed.  He  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  his  preju- 
dices, which,  indeed,  is  tolerably  transparent  in  his  state- 
ment that  he  found  it  hard  to  reverence  Coleridge  when  he 
supposed  him  to  be  a  Socinian.  Now,  though  a  'liberal 
man,'  he  could  not  hold  a  Socinian  to  be  a  Christian  ;  nor 
could  he  'think  that  any  man,  though  he  make  himself  a 
marvellously  clever  disputant,  ever  could  tower  upwards 
into  a  very  great  philosopher,  unless  he  should  begin  or  end 
with  Christianity.'  The  canon  may  be  sound,  but  it  at  once 
destroys  the  pretensions  of  such  men  as  Hobbes,  Spinoza, 
Hume,  and  even,  though  De  Quincey  considers  him  'a 
dubious  exception,'  Kant.  Even  heterodoxy  is  enough  to 
alienate  his  sympathies.  '  Think  of  a  man,'  he  exclaims 
about  poor  Whiston,  '  who  had  brilliant  preferment  within 
his  reach,  dragging  his  poor  wife  and  daughter  for  half  a 
century  through  the  very  mire  of  despondency  and  destitu- 
tion, because  he  disapproved  of  Athanasius,  or  because  the 
"  Shepherd  of  Hermas "  was  not  suificiently  esteemed  by 
the  Church  of  England.'  To  do  him  justice,  De  Quincey 
admits,  in  another  passage,  that  this  ridicule  of  a  poor  man 
for  sacrificing  his  interests  to  his  principles  was  not  quite 
fair  ;  but  then  Whiston  was  only  an  Arian.  When  Priestley, 
who  was  a  far  worse  heretic,  had  his  house  sacked  by  a 
mob  and  his  life  endangered,  De  Quincey  can  scarcely 
restrain  his  exultation.  He  admits  in  terms  that  Priestley 
ought  to  be  pitied,  but  adds  that  the  fanaticism  of  the 
mob  was  '  much  more  reasonable  '  than  the  fanaticism  of 


DE   nUINCEY  263 

Priestley  ;  and  that  those  who  play  at  ijowls  must  look  out 
for  rubbers.  Person  is  to  be  detested  for  his  letters  to 
Travis,  though  De  Quincey  does  not  dare  to  defend  the 
disputed  text.  He  has,  however,  a  pleasant  insinuation  at 
command.  Porson,  he  says,  stung  like  a  hornet ;  '  it  may 
chance  that  on  this  subject  Master  Porson  will  get  stung 
through  his  coffin,  before  he  is  many  years  deader.'  What 
scholarlike  badinage  !  Political  heretics  fare  little  better. 
Fox's  eloquence  was  '  ditch-water,'  with  a  shrill  effervescence 
of  '  imaginary  gas.'  Burnet  was  a  '  gossiper,  slanderer,  and 
notorious  falsifier  of  facts.'  That  one  of  his  sermons  was 
burnt  is  '  the  most  consolatory  fact  in  his  whole  worldly 
career ; '  and  he  asks,  '  would  there  have  been  much  harm 
in  tying  his  lordship  to  the  sermon  ?  '  Junius  was  not  only 
a  knave  who  ought  to  have  been  transported,  but  his  literary 
success  rested  upon  an  utter  delusion.  He  had  neither 
'  sentiment,  imagination,  nor  generalisation.'  Johnson, 
though  the  best  of  Tories,  lived  in  the  wrong  century,  and 
unluckily  criticised  Milton  with  foolish  harshness.  There- 
fore '  Johnson,  viewed  in  relation  to  Milton,  was  a  malicious, 
mendacious,  and  dishonest  man.' 

Let  us  turn  to  greater  names.  Goethe's  best  work  was 
'  Werther,'  and  De  Quincey  is  convinced  that  his  reputation 
'  must  decline  for  the  next  generation  or  two,  until  it  reaches 
its  just  level.'  His  merits  have  been  exaggerated  for  three 
reasons — first,  his  great  age  ;  secondly,  '  the  splendour  of  his 
official  rank  at  the  court  of  Weimar ; '  thirdly,  '  his  enigma- 
tical and  unintelligible  writing.'  But  '  in  Germany  his  works 
are  little  read,  and  in  this  country  not  at  all.'  '  A\'ilhelm 
Meister'  is  morally  detestable,  and,  artistically  speaking, 
rubbish.  Of  the  author  of  the  Philosophical  Dictionary,  of 
the  '  Essai  sur  les  Moeurs,'  of  '  Candide,'  and  certain  other 


264  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

trifles,  his  judgment  is  that  Horace  Walpole's  reputation  is 
the  same  in  kind,  as  the  genuine  reputation  of  Voltaire  : 
'  Both  are  very  splendid  memoir  writers,  and  of  the  two, 
Lord  Orford  is  the  more  brilliant.'  In  the  same  tone  he 
compares  Gibbon  to  Southey,  giving  the  advantage  to  the 
latter  on  the  score  of  his  poetical  ability  ;  and  his  view  of 
another  great  infidel  may  be  inferred  from  the  following 
phrase  One  of  Rousseau's  opinions  is  only  known  to 
us  through  Cowper,  '  for  in  the  unventilated  pages  of  its 
originator  it  would  have  lurked  undisturbed  down  to  this 
hour  of  June,  1819.' 

Voltaire  and  Rousseau  have  the  double  title  to  hatred 
of  being  Frenchmen  and  free  thinkers.  But  even  orthodox 
Frenchmen  fare  little  better.  'The  French  Bossuets, 
Bourdaloues,  Fenelons,  &c.,  whatever  may  be  thought  of 
their  meagre  and  attenuated  rhetoric,  are  one  and  all  the 
most  commonplace  of  thinkers.'  In  fact,  the  mere  mention 
of  France  acts  upon  him  like  a  red  rag  on  a  bull.  The 
French,  '  in  whom  the  lower  forms  of  passion  are  constantly 
bubbling  up,  from  the  shallow  and  superficial  character  of 
their  feelings,'  are  incapable  of  English  earnestness.  Their 
taste  is  'anything  but  good  in  all  that  department  of  wit 
and  humour ' — the  department,  apparently,  of  anecdotes — 
'  and  the  ground  lies  in  their  natural  want  of  veracity  ; ' 
whereas  England  bases  upon  its  truthfulness  a  well-founded 
claim  to  'a  moral  pre-eminence  among  the  nations.' 
Belgians,  French,  and  Italians  attract  the  inconsiderate  by 
'  facile  obsequiousness,'  which,  however,  is  a  pendent  of 
'  impudence  and  insincerity.  Want  of  principle  and  want 
of  moral  sensibility  compose  the  oxlgxnTuX  fundus  of  southern 
manners.'  Our  faults  of  style,  such  as  they  are,  proceed 
from  our  manliness.     In  France  there   are  no  unmarried 


DE   QUINCEY  265 

women  at  the  age  which  amongst  us  gives  the  insulting 
name  of  old  maid.  *  What  striking  sacrifices  of  sexual 
honour  does  this  one  fact  argue  ! '  The  French  style  is 
remarkable  for  simplicity — 'a  strange  pretension  for  any- 
thing French  ; '  but  on  the  whole  the  intellectual  merits  of 
their  style  are  small,  '  chiefly  negative,'  and  '  founded  on  the 
accident  of  their  colloquial  necessities.'  They  are  amply 
compensated,  too,  by  '  the  prodigious  defects  of  the  French 
in  all  the  higher  qualities  of  prose  composition.'  Even 
their  handwriting  is  the  '  very  vilest  form  of  scribbling 
which  exists  in  Europe,'  and  they  and  the  Germans  are  '  the 
two  most  gormandising  races  in  Europe.'  They  display 
a  brutal  selfishness  in  satisfying  their  appetites,  whereas 
Englishmen  at  all  public  meals  are  remarkably  conspicuous 
for 'a  spirit  of  mutual  attention  and  self-sacrifice.'  It  is 
enough  to  show  the  real  degradation  of  their  habits,  that 
they  use  the  'odious  gesture  '  of  shrugging  their  shoulders, 
and  are  fond  of  the  '  vile  ejaculation  "  bah  !  "  '  which  is  as 
bad  as  to  puff  the  smoke  of  a  tobacco-pipe  into  your  com- 
panion's face.  They  have  neither  self-respect  nor  respect  for 
others.  French  masters  are  never  dignified,  though  some- 
times tyrannical  ;  French  servants  are  always,  even  without 
meaning  it,  disrespectfully  familiar.  Many  of  their  manners 
and  usages  are  'essentially  vulgar,  and  their  apparent 
affability  depends  not  on  kindness  of  heart,  but  love  of 
talking.' 

The  impudence  of  the  assertions  is  really  amusing, 
though  one  cannot  but  regret  that  the  vulgar  prejudice  of 
the  old-fashioned  John  Bull  should  have  been  embodied 
in  the  pages  of  a  master  of  our  language.  They  are  worth 
notice  because  they  were  not  special  to  De  Quincey,  but 
characteristic  of  one  very  intelligible  tendency  of  his  genera- 


266  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

tion.  De  Quincey's  prejudices  are  chiefly  the  reflection  of 
those  of  the  Coleridge  school  in  general,  though  he  added 
to  them  a  few  pet  aversions  of  his  own.  At  times  his 
genuine  acuteness  of  mind  raises  him  above  the  teaching  of 
his  masters,  or  at  least  enables  him  to  detect  their  weak- 
nesses. He  discovers  Coleridge's  plagiarisms,  though  he 
believes  and,  indeed,  speaks  in  the  most  exaggerated  terms 
of  his  philosophical  pretensions  ;  whilst,  in  treating  of 
Wordsworth,  he  points  out  with  great  skill  the  fallacy  of 
some  of  his  theories  and  the  inconsistency  of  his 
practice.  But  whilst  keenly  observant  of  some  of  the 
failings  of  his  friends,  he  reproduces  others  in  even  an 
exaggerated  type.  He  shows  to  the  full  their  narrow- 
minded  hatred  of  the  preceding  century,  of  all  forms  of 
excellence  which  did  not  correspond  to  their  favourite  types, 
and  of  all  speculation  which  did  not  lead  to,  or  start  from, 
their  characteristic  doctrines.  The  error  is  fully  pardonable. 
We  must  not  look  to  men  who  are  leading  a  revolt  against 
established  modes  of  thought  for  a  full  appreciation  of  the 
doctrines  of  their  antagonists  ;  and  if  De  Quincey  could 
recognise  no  merit  in  Voltaire  or  Rousseau,  in  Locke,  Paley, 
or  Jeremy  Bentham,  their  followers  were  quite  prepared  to 
retaliate  in  kind.  One  feels,  however,  that  such  prejudices 
are  more  respectable  when  they  are  the  foibles  of  a  strong 
mind  engaged  in  active  warfare.  We  can  pardon  the  old 
campaigner,  who  has  become  bitter  in  an  internecine  contest. 
It  is  not  quite  so  pleasant  to  discover  the  same  bitterness  in 
a  gentleman  who  has  looked  on  from  a  distance,  and  never 
quite  made  up  his  mind  to  buckle  on  his  armour.  De 
Quincey  had  not  earned  the  right  of  speaking  evil  of  his 
enemies.  If  a  man  chances  to  be  a  Hedonist,  he  should 
show  the  good  temper  which  is  the  best  virtue  of  the  indo- 


DE   QUINCE Y  267 

lent.  To  lie  on  a  bed  of  roses,  and  snarl  at  everybody  who 
contradicts  your  theories,  seems  to  imply  rather  testiness 
of  temper  than  strength  of  conviction.  De  Quincey  is  a 
Christian  on  Epicurean  principles.  He  dislikes  an  infidel 
because  his  repose  is  disturbed  by  the  arguments  of  free 
thinkers.  He  fears  that  he  will  be  forced  to  think  con- 
scientiously, and  to  polish  his  logical  weapons  afresh.  He 
mutters  that  the  man  is  a  fool,  and  could  be  easily  thrashed 
if  it  were  worth  while,  and  then  turns  back  to  his  opium  and 
his  rhetoric  and  his  beloved  Church  of  England.  There  is 
no  pleasanter  institution  for  a  gentleman  who  likes  magni- 
ficent historical  associations,  and  heartily  hates  the  rude 
revolutionists  who  would  turn  the  world  upside  down,  and 
thereby  disturb  the  rest  of  dreamy  metaphysicians. 

He  is  quite  pathetic,  too,  about  the  British  Constitution. 
'Destroy  the  House  of  Lords,'  he  exclaims,  'and  hence- 
forward, for  people  like  you  and  me,  England  will  be  no 
habitable  land.'  Here,  he  seems  to  say,  is  one  charming 
elysium,  where  no  rude  hand  has  swept  away  the  cobwebs 
or  replaced  the  good  old-fashioned  machinery  ;  here  w^e 
may  find  rest  in  the  '  pure,  holy,  and  magnificent  Church,' 
whose  Articles,  interpreted  by  Coleridge,  may  guide  us 
through  the  most  wondrous  of  metaphysical  labyrinths,  and 
dwell  in  a  grand  constitutional  edifice,  rich  in  picturesque 
memories,  and  blending  into  one  complex  harmony  elements 
contributed  by  a  long  series  of  centuries.  And  you,  wretched 
French  revolutionists,  with  your  love  of  petty  precision, 
and  irreverent  radicals  and  utilitarians,  with  your  grovelling 
material  notions,  propose  to  level,  and  destroy,  and  break 
in  upon  my  delicious  reveries.  No  old  Hebrew  prophet 
could  be  more  indignant  with  the  enemy  who  threatened  to 
break  down  the  carved  work  of  his  temples  with  axes  and 


268  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

hammers.  But  his  complaint  is,  after  all,  the  voice  of  the 
sluggard.  Let  me  dream  a  little  longer  ;  for  much  as  I  love 
my  country  and  its  institutions,  I  cannot  rouse  myself  to 
fight  for  them.  It  is  enough  if  I  call  their  assailants  an 
ugly  name  or  so,  and  at  times  begin  to  write  what  might  be 
the  opening  pages  of  the  preface  to  some  very  great  work  of 
the  future.  Alas  !  the  first  digression  diverts  the  thread 
of  the  discourse  ;  the  task  becomes  troublesome,  and  the 
labour  is  abruptly  broken  off.  And  so  in  a  life  of  seventy- 
three  years  De  Quincey  read  extensively  and  thought 
acutely  by  fits,  ate  an  enormous  quantity  of  opium,  wrote  a 
few  pages  which  revealed  new  capacities  in  the  language, 
and  provided  a  good  deal  of  respectable  padding  for 
magazines.  It  sounds,  and  many  people  will  say  that  it  is, 
a  harsh  and,  perhaps  they  will  add,  a  stupid  judgment.  If 
so,  they  may  find  plenty  of  admirers  who  will  supply  the 
eulogistic  side  here  too  briefly  indicated.  I  will  only  say 
two  things  :  first,  that  there  are  very  few  writers  who 
have  revealed  new  capacities  in  the  language,  and  in 
English  literature  they  might  almost  be  counted  on  the 
fingers.  Secondly,  I  must  confess  that  I  have  often  con- 
sulted De  Quincey  in  regard  to  biographic  and  critical 
questions,  and  that  though  I  have  generally  found  some- 
thing to  admire,  I  have  always  found  gross  inaccuracies  and 
almost  always  effeminate  prejudices  and  mere  flippancies 
draped  in  elaborate  rhetoric.  I  take  leave,  therefore,  to  in- 
sist upon  faults  which  are  passed  over  too  easily  by  writers 
of  more  geniality  than  I  claim  to  possess. 


269 


SIR    THOMAS  BROWNE 

'  Let  me  not  injure  the  felicity  of  others,'  says  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  in  a  suppressed  passage  of  the  '  Rehgio  Medici,'  '  if 
I  say  that  I  am  the  happiest  man  ahve.  I  have  that  in  me 
that  can  convert  poverty  into  riches,  adversity  into  pro- 
sperity, and  I  am  more  invuhierable  than  Achilles  :  fortune 
hath  not  one  place  to  hit  me.'  Perhaps  on  second  thoughts. 
Sir  Thomas  felt  that  the  phrase  savoured  of  that  pre- 
sumption which  is  supposed  to  provoke  the  wrath  of 
Nemesis  ;  and  at  any  rate,  he,  of  all  men,  is  the  last  to  be 
taken  too  literally  at  his  word.  He  is  a  humorist  to  the 
core,  and  is  here  writing  dramatically.  There  are  many 
things  in  this  book,  so  he  tells  us,  '  delivered  rhetorically, 
many  expressions  therein  merely  tropical,  .  .  .  and  there- 
fore also  many  things  to  be  taken  in  a  soft  and  flexible  sense, 
and  not  to  be  called  unto  the  rigid  test  of  reason.'  We 
shall  hardly  do  wrong  in  reckoning  amongst  them  this 
audacious  claim  to  surpassing  felicity,  as  we  may  certainly 
include  his  boast  that  he  '  could  lose  an  arm  without  a  tear, 
and  with  few  groans  be  quartered  into  pieces.'  And  yetj  if 
Sir  Thomas  were  to  be  understood  in  the  most  downright 
literal  earnest,  perhaps  he  could  have  made  out  as  good  a 
case  for  his  assertion  as  almost  any  of  the  troubled  race 
of  mankind.  For,  if  wu  set  aside  external  circumstances 
of  life,  what  qualities  offer  a   more   certain  guarantee   of 


270  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

happiness  than  those  of  which  he  is  an  ahnost  typical 
example  ?  A  mind  endowed  with  an  insatiable  curiosity  as 
to  all  things  knowable  and  unknowable  ;  an  imagination 
which  tinges  with  poetical  hues  the  vast  accumulation  of 
incoherent  facts  thus  stored  in  a  capacious  memory  ;  and 
a  strangely  vivid  humour  that  is  always  detecting  the 
quaintest  analogies,  and,  as  it  were,  striking  light  from  the 
most  unexpected  collocations  of  uncompromising  materials  : 
such  talents  are  by  themselves  enough  to  provide  a  man  with 
work  for  life,  and  to  make  all  his  work  delightful.  To  them, 
moreover,  we  must  add  a  disposition  absolutely  incapable 
of  controversial  bitterness;  'a  constitution,'  as  he  says  of 
himself,  'so  general  that  it  consorts  and  sympathises  with 
all  things ; '  an  absence  of  all  antipathies  to  loathsome 
objects  in  nature — to  French  '  dishes  of  snails,  frogs,  and 
toadstools,'  or  to  Jewish  repasts  on  '  locusts  or  grasshoppers  ; ' 
an  equal  toleration — which  in  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century  is  something  astonishing — for  all  theological  systems : 
an  admiration  even  of  our  natural  enemies,  the  French, 
the  Spaniards,  the  Italians,  and  the  Dutch  ;  a  love  of  all 
climates,  of  all  countries  ;  and,  in  short,  an  utter  incapacity 
to  '  absolutely  detest  or  hate  any  essence  except  the  devil.' 
Indeed,  his  hatred  even  for  that  personage  has  in  it  so  little 
of  bitterness,  that  no  man,  we  may  be  sure,  would  have 
joined  more  heartily  in  the  Scotch  minister's  petition  for 
'  the  puir  de'il ' — a  prayer  conceived  in  the  very  spirit  of  his 
writings.  A  man  so  endowed— and  it  is  not  only  from  his 
explicit  assertions,  but  from  his  unconscious  self-revelation, 
that  we  may  credit  him  with  closely  approaching  his  own 
ideal— is  admirably  qualified  to  discover  one  great  secret  of 
human  happiness.  No  man  was  ever  better  prepared  to 
keep  not  only  one,  but  a  whole  stableful  of  hobbies,  nor 


SIR    THOMAS  BROWNE  271 

more  certain  to  ride  them  so  as  to  amuse  himself,  without 
loss  of  temper  or  dignity,  and  without  rude  collisions  against 
his  neighbours.  That  happy  art  is  given  to  few,  and  thanks 
to  his  skill  in  it,  Sir  Thomas  reminds  us  strongly  of  the  two 
illustrious  brothers  Shandy  combined  in  one  person.  To 
the  exquisite  kindliness  and  simplicity  of  Uncle  Toby  he 
unites  the  omnivorous  intellectual  appetite  and  the  humorous 
pedantry  of  the  head  of  the  family.  The  resemblance,  in- 
deed, may  not  be  quite  fortuitous.  Though  it  does  not 
appear  that  Sterne,  amidst  his  multifarious  pilferings,  laid 
hands  upon  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  one  may  fancy  that  he 
took  a  general  hint  or  two  from  so  congenial  an  author. 

The  best  mode  of  approaching  so  original  a  writer  is 
to  examine  the  intellectual  food  on  which  his  mind  was 
nourished.  He  dwelt  by  preference  in  strange  literary 
pastures  ;  and  their  nature  wnll  let  us  into  some  secrets  as 
to  his  taste  and  character.  We  will  begin,  therefore,  by 
examining  the  strange  furniture  of  his  mind,  as  described 
in  his  longest,  though  not  his  most  characteristic  book — 
the  '  Inquiry  into  Vulgar  Errors.'  When  we  turn  over  its 
quaint  pages,  we  feel  as  though  we  were  entering  one  of 
those  singular  museums  of  curiosities  which  existed  in  the 
pre-scientific  ages.  Every  corner  is  filled  with  a  strange, 
incoherent  medley,  in  which  really  valuable  objects  are 
placed  side  by  side  with  what  is  simply  grotesque  and  ludi- 
crous. The  modern  man  of  science  may  find  some  objects 
of  interest  ;  but  they  are  mixed  inextricably  with  strange 
rubbish  that  once  delighted  the  astrologer,  the  alchemist,  or 
the  dealer  in  apocryphal  relics.  And  the  possessor  of  this 
miscellaneous  collection  accompanies  us  with  an  unfailing 
flow  of  amusing  gossip  :  at  one  moment  pouring  forth  a 
torrent  of  out-of-the-way  learning  ;  at   another,  making  a 


272  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

really  passable  scientific   remark  ;    and    then    lapsing  into 
an  elaborate  discussion  of  some  inconceivable  absurdity  ; 
affecting  the  air  of  a  grave  inquirer,  and  to  all  appearance 
fully   believing   in  his  own  pretensions,  and  yet  somehow 
indulging  himself  in  a  half-suppressed  smile,  which  indicates 
that  the  humorous  aspect  of  a  question  can  never  be  far 
removed  from  his  mind.     Mere  curiosity  is  not  yet  differen- 
tiated from  scientific  thirst  for  knowledge  ;  and  a  quaint 
apologue  is  as  good  a  reward  for  the  inquirer  as  the  discovery 
of  a  law  of  nature.     The  numerous  class  which  insists  upon 
a  joke  being  as  unequivocal  as  a  pistol-shot,  and  a  serious 
statement  as  grave  as  a  Blue-book,  should  therefore  keep 
clear  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne.     His  most  congenial  readers 
are  those  who  take  a  simple  delight  in  following  out  any 
quaint  train  of  reflections,  careless  whether  it  may  culminate, 
in  a  smile  or  a  sigh,  or  in  some  thought  in  which  the  two 
elements  of   the  sad  and   the    ludicrous   are    inextricably 
blended.     Sir  Thomas,  however,  is  in  the  '  Inquiry  '  content 
generally  with  bringing  out  the  strange    curiosities  of  his 
museum,   and  does  not  care   to  draw  any  explicit  moral. 
The  quaintness  of  the  objects  unearthed  seems  to  be  a  suffi- 
cient recompense  for  the  labour  of  the  search.     Fortunately 
for  his  design,  he  lived  in  the  time  when  a  poet  might  have 
spoken  without  hyperbole  of  the  '  fairy  tales  oi   science.' 
To  us,  who  have  to  plod  through  an  arid  waste  of  painful 
observation,  and  slow  piecing  together  of  cautious  inferences 
before  reaching  the  promised  land  of  wondrous  discoveries, 
the  expression  sometimes  appears  to  be  ironical.     Does  not 
science,  we  may  ask  with  a /;7>;^(//a«V  resemblance  of  right, 
destroy  as  much  poetry  as  it  generates  ?     To  him  no  such 
doubts  could  present  themselves,  for  fairyland  was  still  a 
province  of  the  empire  of  science.     Strange  beings  moved 


5//e    THOMAS  BROWNE  273 

through  the  pages  of  natural  historj',  which  were  equally 
at  home  in  the  '  Arabian  Nights  '  or  in  poetical  apologues. 
The  griffin,  the  phcenix,  and  the  dragon  were  not  yet 
extinct ;  the  salamander  still  sported  in  flames  ;  and  the 
basilisk  slew  men  at  a  distance  with  his  deadly  glance.  More 
commonplace  animals  indulged  in  the  habits  which  they  had 
learnt  in  fables,  and  of  which  only  some  feeble  vestiges  now 
remain  in  the  eloquence  of  strolling  showmen.  The  elephant 
had  no  joints,  and  was  caught  by  fellmg  the  tree  against 
which  he  rested  his  stiff  limbs  in  sleep  ;  the  pelican  pierced 
its  breast  for  the  good  of  its  young  ;  ostriches  were  regularly 
painted  with  a  horseshoe  in  their  bills,  to  indicate  their 
ordinary  diet  ;  storks  refused  to  live  except  in  republics  and 
free  states ;  the  crowing  of  a  cock  put  lions  to  flight,  and 
men  were  struck  dumb  in  good  sober  earnest  by  the  sight 
of  a  wolf.  The  curiosity-hunter,  in  short,  found  his  game 
still  plentiful,  and,  by  a  few  excursions  into  Aristotle,  Pliny, 
and  other  more  recondite  authors,  was  able  still  to  display 
a  rich  bag  for  the  edification  of  his  readers.  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  sets  out  on  that  quest  with  all  imaginable  serious- 
ness. He  persuaded  himself,  and  he  has  persuaded  some 
of  his  editors,  that  he  was  a  genuine  disciple  of  Bacon,  by 
one  of  whose  suggestions  the  '  Inquiry  '  is  supposed  to  have 
been  prompted.  Accordingly,  as  Bacon  describes  the  idols 
by  w'hich  the  human  mind  is  misled.  Sir  Thomas  sets  out 
with  investigating  the  causes  of  error  ;  but  his  introductory 
remarks  immediately  diverge  into  strange  paths,  from  which 
it  is  obvious  that  the  discovery  of  true  scientific  method 
was  a  very  subordinate  object  in  his  mind.  Instead  of  tell- 
ing us  by  what  means  truth  is  to  be  attained,  his  few  per- 
functory remarks  on  logic  are  lost  in  an  historical  narrative, 
given  with  infinite  zest,  of  the  earliest  recorded  blunders. 

VOL.    I.  T 


274  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

The  period  of  history  in  which  he  most  dehghted  was  the 
antediluvian — probably  because  it  afforded  the  widest  field 
for   speculation.     His  books  are  full  of  references  to  the 
early  days  of  the  world.     He  takes  a  keen  personal  interest 
in  our  first  parents.     He  discusses  the  unfortunate  lapse  of 
Adam  and  Eve  from  every  possible  point  of  view.     It  is  not 
without  a  visible  effort  that  he  declines  to  settle  which  of 
the  two  was  the  more  guilty,  and  what  would  have  been  the 
result  if  they  had  tasted  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Life  before 
applying  to  the  Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil. 
Then  he  passes  in  review  every  recorded  speech  before  the 
Flood,  shows   that  in  each  of  them,   with  one  exception, 
there  is  a  mixture  of  falsehood  and  error,  and  setdes  to  his 
own  satisfaction  that  Cain  showed  less  '  truth,  wisdom,  and 
reverence  '  than  Satan  under  similar  circumstances.     Grant- 
ing all  which  to  be  true,  it  is  impossible  to  see  how  we  are 
advanced  in  settling,  for  example,  whether  the  Ptolemaic  or 
the  Copernican  system  of  astronomy  is  to  be  adopted,  or  in 
extracting  the  grains  of  truth  that  may  be  overlaid  by  masses 
of  error  in  the  writings  of  alchemists.     Nor  do  we  really 
learn  much  by  being  told  that  ancient  authorities  sometimes 
lie,   for  he  evidently  enjoys  accumulating  the  fables,  and 
cares  little  for  showing  how  to  discriminate  their  degree  of 
veracity.     He  tells  us,   indeed,  that  Medea  was  simply  a 
predecessor   of  certain  modern    artists,  with  an  excellent 
'  recipe  to  make  white  hair  black  ;'  and  that  Actseon  was  a 
spirited   master   of  hounds,    who,    like   too   many   of  his 
ancestors,  went  metaphorically,  instead  of  literally,  to  the 
dogs.     He  points  out,  moreover,  that  we  must  not  believe  on 
authority  that  the  sea  is  the  sweat  of  the  earth,  that  the  serpent, 
before  the  Fall,  went  erect  like  man,  or  that  the  right  eye  of 
a  hedgehog,  boiled  in  oil,  and  preserved  in  a  brazen  vessel, 


S7R    THOMAS   BROWNE  275 

will  enable  us  to  see  in  the  dark.  Such  stories,  he  mode- 
rately remarks,  being  '  neither  consonant  unto  reason,  nor 
correspondent  unto  experiment,'  are  unto  us  '  no  axioms.' 
But  we  may  judge  of  his  scepticism  by  his  remarks  on 
'  Oppianus,  that  famous  Cilician  poet.'  Of  this  writer  he  says 
that  '  abating  the  annual  mutation  of  sexes  in  the  hyaena,  the 
single  sex  of  the  rhinoceros,  the  antipathy  between  two  drums 
of  a  lamb's  and  a  wolf's  skin,  the  informity  of  cubs,  the  vena- 
tion of  centaurs,  and  some  few  others,  he  may  be  read  with 
delight  and  profit.'  Obviously  we  shall  find  in  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  no  inexorably  severe  guide  to  truth  !  he  will  not  too 
sternly  reject  the  amusing  because  it  happens  to  be  slightly 
improbable,  or  doubt  an  authority  because  he  sometimes 
sanctions  a  mass  of  absurd  fables.  Satan,  as  he  argues  at 
great  length,  is  at  the  bottom  of  most  errors,  from  false 
religions  down  to  a  belief  that  there  is  another  world  in  the 
moon  ;  but  Sir  Thomas  takes  little  trouble  to  provide  us 
with  an  Ithuriel's  spear,  and,  indeed,  we  have  a  faint  sus- 
picion that  he  will  overlook  at  times  the  diabolic  agency  in 
sheer  enthusiasm  at  the  marvellous  results.  The  logical 
design  is  little  more  than  ostensible ;  and  Sir  Thomas, 
though  he  knew  it  not  himself,  is  really  satisfied  with  any 
line  of  inquiry  that  will  bring  him  in  sight  of  some  freak  of 
nature  or  of  opinion  suitable  to  his  museum  of  curiosities. 

Let  us,  however,  pass  from  the  anteroom,  and  enter  this 
queer  museum.  We  pause  in  sheer  bewilderment  on  the 
threshold,  and  despair  of  classifying  its  contents  intelligibly 
within  any  moderate  space.  This  much,  indeed,  is  obvious 
at  first  sight — that  the  title  '  vulgar  errors  '  is  to  some  extent 
a  misnomer.  It  is  not  given  to  vulgar  brains  to  go  wrong  by 
such  complex  methods.  There  are  errors  which  require  more 
learning  and   ingenuity  than  are  necessary  for  discovering 

T  2 


276  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

truths  ;  and  it  is  in  those  queer  freaks  of  philosophical 
minds  that  Sir  Thomas  specially  delights.  Though  far, 
indeed,  from  objecting  to  any  absurdity  which  lies  on  the 
common  highroad,  he  rejoices  in  the  true  spirit  of  a  collector 
when  he  can  discover  some  grotesque  fancy  by  rambling 
into  less  frequented  paths  of  inquiry.  Perhaps  it  will  be  best 
to  take  down  one  or  two  specimens,  pretty  much  at  random, 
and  mark  their  nature  and  mode  of  treatment.  Here,  for 
example,  is  that  quaint  old  wonder,  the  phoenix,  '  which, 
after  many  hundred  years,  burneth  itself,  and  from  the 
ashes  thereof  ariseth  up  another.'  Sir  Thomas  carefully 
discusses  the  pros  and  cons  of  this  remarkable  legend.  In 
favour  of  the  phoenix,  it  may  be  alleged  that  he  is  mentioned 
'not  only  by  human  authors,'  but  also  by  such  'holy 
writers'  as  Cyril,  Epiphanius,  and  Ambrose.  Moreover, 
allusions  are  made  to  him  in  Job  and  the  Psalms.  '  All 
which  notwithstanding,'  the  following  grave  reasons  may  be 
alleged  against  his  existence  :  First,  nobody  has  ever  seen  a 
phoenix.  Secondly,  those  who  mention  him  speak  doubt- 
fully, and  even  Pliny,  after  telling  a  story  about  a  particular 
phoenix  which  came  to  Rome  in  the  censorship  of  Claudius, 
unkindly  turns  round  and  declares  the  whole  story  to  be  a 
palpable  lie.  Thirdly,  the  name  phcenix  has  been  applied 
to  many  other  birds,  and  those  who  speak  unequivocally  of  the 
genuine  phoenix  contradict  each  other  in  the  most  flagrant 
way  as  to  his  age  and  habitat.  Fourthly,  many  writers,  such 
as  Ovid,  only  speak  poetically,  and  others,  as  Paracelsus, 
only  mystically,  whilst  the  remainder  speak  rhetorically, 
emblematically,  or  hieroglyphically.  Fifthly,  in  the  Scrip- 
tures, the  word  translated  phoenix  means  a  palm  tree. 
Sixthly,  his  existence,  if  we  look  closely,  is  implicitly  denied 
in  the  Scriptures,  because  all  fowls  entered  the  ark  in  pairs, 


SIR    THOMAS   BROWNE  277 

and  animals  were  commanded  to  increase  and  multiply, 
neither  of  which  statements  is  compatible  with  the  solitary 
nature  of  the  phoenix.  Seventhly,  nobody  could  have  known 
by  experience  whether  the  phcjcnix  actually  lived  for  a 
thousand  years,  and,  therefore,  '  there  may  be  a  mistake  in 
the  compute.'  Eighthly,  and  finally,  no  animals  really 
spring,  or  could  spring,  from  the  ashes  of  their  predecessors, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  they  could  enter  the 
world  in  such  a  fashion.  Having  carefully  summed  up  this 
negative  evidence — enough,  one  would  have  fancied,  to  blow 
the  poor  phoenix  into  summary  annihilation — Sir  Thomas 
finally  announces  his  grave  conclusion  in  these  words — 
'  How  far  to  rely  on  this  tradition  we  refer  unto  considera- 
tion.' And  yet  he  feels  impelled  to  add  a  quaint  reflection 
on  the  improbability  of  a  statement  made  by  Plutarch,  that 
'  the  brain  of  a  phoenix  is  a  pleasant  bit,  but  that  it  causeth 
the  headache.'  Heliogabalus,  he  observes,  could  not  have 
slain  the  phoenix,  for  it  must  of  necessity  be  'a  vain  design 
to  destroy  any  species,  or  mutilate  the  great  accomplish- 
ment of  six  days.'  To  which  it  is  added,  by  way  of  final 
corollary,  that  after  Cain  had  killed  Abel,  he  could  not 
have  destroyed  Eve,  supposing  her  to  have  been  the  only 
woman  in  existence  :  for  then  there  must  have  been 
another  creation,  and  a  second  rib  of  Adam  must  have  been 
animated. 

We  must  not,  however,  linger  too  long  with  these  singu- 
lar speculations,  for  it  is  probable  that  phoenix-fanciers  are 
becoming  rare.  It  is  enough  to  say  briefly,  that  if  anyone 
wishes  to  understand  the  natural  history  of  the  basilisk,  the 
griffin,  the  salamander,  the  cockatrice,  or  the  amphisboena — 
if  he  wishes  to  know  whether  a  chameleon  lives  on  air, 
and  an  ostrich  on  horseshoes— whether  a  carbuncle  gives 


2yS  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

light  in  the  dark,  whether  the  Glastonbury  thorn  bore  flowers 
on  Christmas-day,  whether  the  mandrake  '  naturally  groweth 
under  gallowses,'  and  shrieks  '  upon  eradication,' — on  these 
and  many  other  such  points  he  may  find  grave  discussions 
in  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  pages.  He  lived  in  the  period 
when  it  was  still  held  to  be  a  sufficient  proof  of  a  story  that 
it  was  written  in  a  book,  especially  if  the  book  were  Latin  ; 
and  some  persons,  such  as  Alexander  Ross,  whose  memory 
is  preserved  only  by  the  rhyme  in  '  Hudibras,'  argued 
gravely  against  his  scepticism. '  For  Sir  Thomas,  in  spite 
of  his  strange  excursions  into  the  marvellous,  inclines  for  the 
most  part  to  the  sceptical  side  of  the  question.  He  was  not 
insensible  to  the  growing  influence  of  the  scientific  spirit, 
though  he  believed  implicitly  in  witchcraft,  spoke  with  high 
respect  of  alchemy  and  astrology,  and  refused  to  believe 
that  the  earth  went  round  the  sun.  He  feels  that  his 
favourite  creatures  are  doomed  to  extinction,  and  though 
dealing  lowngly  with  them,  speaks  rather  like  an  attached 
mourner  at  their  funerals  than  a  physician  endeavouring  to 
maintain  their  flickering  vitality.  He  tries  experiments  and 
has  a  taste  for  dissection.  He  proves  by  the  evidence  of 
his  senses,  and  believes  them  in  spite  of  the  general  report, 
that  a  dead  kingfisher  will  not  turn  its  breast  to  the  wind. 
He  convinced  himself  that  if  two  magnetic  needles  were 
placed  in  the  centre  of  rings  marked  with  the  alphabet  (an 
odd  anticipation  of  the  electric  telegraph,  ininiis  the  wires), 
they  would  not  point  to  the  same  letter  by  an  occult  sym- 
pathy. His  arguments  are  often  to  the  point,  though  over- 
laid with  a  strange  accretion  of  the  fabulous.     In  discussing 

'  Ross,  for  example,  urges  that  the  invisibility  of  the  phoenix  is 
sufficiently  accounted  for  by  the  natural  desire  of  a  unique  animal  to 
keep  out  of  harm's  way. 


S/R    THOMAS   BROWNE  279 

the  question  of  the  blackness  of  negroes,  he  may  remind 
benevolent  readers  of  some  of  Mr.  Darwin's  recent  specula- 
tions. He  rejects,  and  on  the  same  grounds  which  Mr. 
Darwin  declares  to  be  conclusive,  the  hypothesis  that  the 
blackness  is  the  immediate  effect  of  the  climate  ;  and  he 
points  out,  what  is  important  in  regard  to  '  sexual  selection,' 
that  a  negro  may  admire  a  flat  nose  as  we  admire  an  aqui- 
line ;  though,  of  course,  he  diverges  into  extra-  scientific 
questions  when  discussing  the  probable  effects  of  the  curse 
of  Ham,  and  rather  loses  himself  in  a  '  digression  concern- 
ing blackness.'  We  may  fancy  that  this  problem  pleased  Sir 
Thomas  rather  because  it  appeared  to  be  totally  insoluble 
than  for  any  other  reason  ;  and  in  spite  of  his  occasional 
gleams  of  scientific  observation,  he  is  always  most  at  home 
when  on  the  border-land  which  divides  the  purely  marvel- 
lous from  the  region  of  ascertainable  fact.  In  the  last  half 
of  his  book,  indeed,  having  exhausted  natural  history,  he 
plunges  with  intense  delight  into  questions  which  bear  the 
same  relation  to  genuine  antiquarianism  that  his  phoenixes 
and  salamanders  bear  to  scientific  inquiry  :  whether  the 
sun  was  created  in  Libra  ;  what  was  the  season  of  the  year 
in  Paradise ;  whether  the  forbidden  fruit  was  an  apple  ; 
whether  Methuselah  was  the  longest-lived  of  all  men  (a 
main  argument  on  the  other  side  being  that  Adam  was 
created  at  the  perfect  age  of  man,  which  in  those  days  was 
fifty  or  sixty,  and  thus  had  a  right  to  add  sixty  to  his  natural 
years)  ;  what  was  the  nature  of  St.  John  the  Baptist's  camel's- 
hair  garment  ;  what  were  the  secret  motives  of  the  builders 
of  the  Tower  of  Babel  \  whether  the  three  kings  really  lived 
at  Cologne, — these  and  many  other  profound  inquiries  are 
detailed  with  all  imaginable  gravity,  and  the  interest  of  the 
inquirer  is  not  the  less  because  he  generally  comes  to  the 


28o  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

satisfactory  and  sensible  conclusion  that  we  cannot  possibly 
know  anything  whatever  about  it. 

The  '  Inquiry  into  Vulgar  Errors '  was  published  in 
1646,  and  Sir  Thomas's  next  publication  appeared  in  1658. 
The  dates  are  significant.  Whilst  all  England  was  in  the 
throes  of  the  iirst  civil  war,  Sir  Thomas  had  been  calmly 
finishing  his  catalogue  of  intellectual  oddities.  This  book 
was  published  soon  after  the  crushing  victory  of  Naseby. 
King,  Parliament,  and  army,  illustrating  a  very  different  kind 
of  vulgar  error,  continued  to  fight  out  their  quarrel  to  the 
death.  Whilst  Milton,  whose  genius  was  in  some  way  most 
nearly  akin  to  his  own,  was  raising  his  voice  in  favour  of  the 
liberty  of  the  press,  good  Sir  Thomas  was  meditating  pro- 
foundly on  quincunxes.  Milton  hurled  fierce  attacks  at  Sal- 
masius,  and  meanwhile  Sir  Thomas,  in  his  quiet  country 
town,  was  discoursing  on  'certain  sepulchral  urns  lately 
found  in  Norfolk.'  In  the  year  of  Cromwell's  death,  the 
result  of  his  labours  appeared  in  a  volume  containing  '  The 
^^^^  Garden  of  Cyrus  '  and  the  '  Hydriotaphia.' 

The  first  of  these  essays  illustrates  Sir  Thomas's  peculiar 
mysticism.  The  external  world  was  not  to  him  the  embodi- 
ment of  invariable  forces,  and  therefore  capable  of  revealing 
a  general  law  in  a  special  instance ;  but  rather  a  system  of 
symbols,  signatures  of  the  Plastic  Nature,  to  which  mys- 
terious truths  were  arbitrarily  annexed.  A  Pythagorean 
doctrine  of  numbers  was  therefore  congenial  to  his  mind. 
He  ransacks  heaven  and  earth,  he  turns  over  all  his  stores 
of  botanical  knowledge,  he  searches  all  sacred  and  profane 
literature  to  discover  anything  that  is  in  the  form  of  an  X, 
or  that  reminds  him  in  any  way  of  the  number  five.  From 
the  garden  of  Cyrus,  where  the  trees  were  arranged  in  this 
order,  he  rambles   through    the   universe,    stumbling   over 


S/7?    THOMAS  BROWNE  281 

quincunxes  at  every  step.     To  take,  for  example,  his  final, 
and,    of  course,   his  fifth    chapter,  we   find  him  modestly 
disavowing  an  '  inexcusable  Pythagorism,'  and  yet  unable 
to  refrain  from  telling  us  that   five  was  anciently  called  the 
number   of  justice  :    that    it   was  also    called   the  divisive 
number  ;  that  most  flowers  have  five  leaves  ;  that  feet  have 
five  toes  ;  that  the  cone  has  a  '  quintuple  division  ; '  that 
there  were  five  wise  and  five  foolish  virgins  ;  that  the  '  most 
generative  animals '  were  created  on  the  fifth  day  ;  that  the 
cabalists  discovered  strange  meanings  in  the  number  five  ; 
that  there  were  five  golden  mice  ;  that  five  thousand  persons 
were  fed  with  five  barley-loaves  ;  that  the  ancients  mixed 
five  parts  of  water  with  wine  ;  that  plays  have  five  acts  ; 
that  starfish  have  five  points  ;  and  that  if  anyone  inquire 
into  the  causes  of  this  strange  repetition,  '  he  shall  not  pass 
his   hours   in    vulgar   speculations.'      We,    however,    must 
decline   the  task,    and   will   content   ourselves  with  a  few 
characteristic  phrases  from  his  peroration.     '  The  quincunx 
of  heaven,'  he  says,  referring  to  the  Hyades,   '  runs  low,  and 
'tis  time  to  close  the  five  parts  of  knowledge.     We  are  un- 
willing  to  spin  out  our  awaking   thoughts  into  the  phan- 
tasms   of    sleep,    which    often   continueth   precogitations, 
making  cables  of  cobwebs,  and  wildernesses  of  handsome 
groves.  .  .  .  Night,  which  Pagan  theology  could  make  the 
daughter  of  chaos,  affords  no  advantage  to  the  description  of 
order  ;  although  no  lower  than  that  mass  can  we  derive  its 
genealogy.     All  things  began  in  order,  so  shall  they  end, 
and  so  shall  they  begin  again  ;  according  to  the  admirer 
of    order    and     mystical     mathematics     of    the    City    of 
Heaven.     Although  Somnus,  in   Homer,  be  sent  to  rouse 
up   Agamemnon,  I  find  no   such    effects  in  these  drowsy 
approaches  of  night.     To  keep  our  eyes  open  longer  were 


282  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

but  to  act  with  our  Antipodes.  The  huntsmen  are  up  in 
America,  and  they  are  already  past  their  first  sleep  in 
Persia.  But  who  can  be  drowsy  at  that  hour,  which  roused 
us  from  everlasting  sleep?  Or  have  slumbering  thoughts 
at  that  hour,  when  sleep  itself  must  end,  and,  as  some 
conjecture,  all  shall  wake  again  ? ' 

'Think  you,'  asks  Coleridge,  commenting  upon  this 
passage,  '  that  there  ever  was  such  a  reason  given  for  going 
to  bed  at  midnight,  to  wit,  that  if  we  did  not,  we  should 
be  acting  the  part  of  our  Antipodes  ? '  In  truth.  Sir 
Thomas  finishes  his  most  whimsical  work  whimsically 
enough.  The  passage  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  quaint  and 
humorous  eloquence  in  which  he  most  delights  ^snatching 
fine  thought  from  sheer  absurdities,  and  putting  the  home- 
liest truth  into  a  dress  of  amusing  oddity.  It  may  remind 
us  that  it  is  time  to  touch  upon  those  higher  quahties,  which 
have  led  one  of  the  acutest  of  recent  critics  *  to  call  him  '  our 
most  imaginative  mind  since  Shakspeare.'  Everywhere, 
indeed,  his  imaginative  writing  is,  if  we  may  so  speak,  shot 
with  his  peculiar  humour.  It  is  difficult  to  select  any  eloquent 
passage  which  does  not  show  this  characteristic  inter- 
weaving of  the  two  elements.  Throw  the  light  from  one 
side,  and  it  shows  nothing  but  quaint  conceits  ;  from 
the  other,  and  we  have  a  rich  glow  of  poetic  colouring.  His 
humour  and  his  melancholy  are  inextricably  blended  ;  and 
,iiis  melancholy  itself  is  described  to  a  nicety  in  the  words 
of  Jaques  : — '  It  is  a  melancholy  of  his  own,  compounded 
of  many  simples,  extracted  from  many  objects,  and,  indeed, 
the  sundry  contemplation  of  his  travels,  in  which  his  often 
rumination  wraps  him  in  a  most  humorous  sadness.'  That 
most  marvellous  Jaques,  indeed,  is  rather  too  much  of  a 
'  Mr.  Lowell,  in  '  Shakspeare  Once  More,'  '  Among  My  Books.' 


SIR    THOMAS  BROWNE  283 

cynic,   and  shows   none  of  the  rehgious  sentiment  of  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  ;  but  if  they  could  have  talked  together 
in  the  forest,  poor  Jaques  would  have  excited  a  far  closer 
sympathy  than  he   receives   from  his   very   unappreciative 
companions.       The     book     in     which     this     '  humorous 
sadness '    finds    the    fullest    expression    is    the    '  Religio 
Medici.'     The  conception  of  the  book  apparently  resulted 
from  the  'sundry  contemplation  of  his  travels,'  and    it  is 
written  throughout  in   his  characteristic  strain  of  thought. 
From  his  travels  he  had  learnt  the  best  lesson  of  a  lofty 
toleration.     The  furious  controversies  of  that  age,  in  which 
the   stake,    the   prison,  and   the  pillory   were   the  popular 
theological  arguments,  produced  a  characteristic  effect  on 
his    sympathies.     He  did  not  give  in  to   the  established 
belief,    like  his   kindly-natured  contemporary   Fuller,  who 
remarks,  in  a  book  published  about  the  same  time  with  the 
'  Religio  Medici,'  that  even   '  the  mildest  authors  '  agree  in 
the  propriety  of  putting  certain  heretics  to  death.     Nor,  on 
the  other   hand,    does   he   share   the   glowing  indignation 
which  prompted  the  great   protests   of  Chillingworth  and 
Taylor  against  the  cruelties  practised  in  the  name  of  religion, 
Browne  has  a  method  of  his  own  in  view  of  such  questions. 
He  shrinks  from  the  hard,  practical  world  into    spiritual 
meditation.     He  regards  all  opinions  less  as  a  philosopher 
than  as  a  poet.     He  asks,  not  whether  a  dogma  is  true,  but 
Avhether  it  is  amusing  or  quaint.     If  his  imagination  or  his 
fancy  can  take  pleasure  in  contemplating  it,  he  is  not  curious 
to  investigate   its   scientific    accuracy.     And   therefore   he 
catches  the  poetical  side  of  creeds  which  differ  from  his 
own,  and  cannot  even  understand  why  anybody  should  grow 
savage  over  their  shortcomings.     He  never  could  be  angry 
with  a  man's  judgment  '  for  not  agreeing  with  me  in  that 


284  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

from  which,  perhaps,  within  a  few  days,  I  should  dissent 
myself.'  Travelling  in  this  spirit  through  countries  where 
the  old  faith  still  prevailed,  he  felt  a  lively  sympathy  for  the 
Catholic  modes  of  worship.  Holy  water  and  crucifixes  do 
not  offend  him.  He  is  willing  to  enter  the  churches  and 
to  pray  with  the  worshippers  of  other  persuasions.  He  is 
naturally  inclined,  he  says,  '  to  that  which  misguided  zeal 
terms  superstition,'  and  would  show  his  respect  rather  than 
his  unbelief.  In  an  eloquent  passage,  which  might 
teach  a  lesson  to  some  modern  tourists,  he  remarks  :--' At 
the  sight  of  a  cross  or  crucifix  I  can  dispense  with  my  hat, 
but  scarce  with  the  thought  and  memory  of  my  Saviour.  I 
cannot  laugh  at,  but  rather  pity,  the  fruitless  journeys  of 
pilgrims,  or  contemn  the  miserable  condition  of  friars  ;  for 
though  misplaced  in  circumstances,  there  is  something  in 
it  of  devotion.  I  could  never  hear  the  Ave  Mary  bell  with- 
out an  elevation  ;  or  think  it  a  sufficient  warrant,  because 
they  erred  in  one  circumstance,  for  me  to  err  in  all — that 
is,  in  silence  and  dumb  contempt.  Whilst,  therefore,  they 
directed  their  devotions  to  her,  I  offered  mine  to  God,  and 
rectified  the  errors  of  their  prayers  by  rightly  ordering  my 
own.  At  a  solemn  procession  I  have  wept  abundantly, 
while  my  consorts,  blind  with  opposition  and  prejudice, 
have  fallen  into  an  excess  of  laughter  and  scorn.' 

Very  characteristic,  from  this  point  of  view,  are  the 
heresies  into  which  he  confesses  that  he  has  sometimes 
fallen.  Setting  aside  one  purely  fantastical  theory,  they  all 
imply  a  desire  for  toleration  even  in  the  next  world.  He 
doubted  whether  the  damned  would  not  ultimately  be 
released  from  torture.  He  felt  great  difficulty  in  giving  up 
prayers  for  the  dead,  and  thought  that  to  be  the  object  of 
such  prayers,  was  '  a  good  way  to  be  remembered  by  posterity, 


S/7,'    THOMAS  BROWNE  285 

and  far  more  noble  than  a  history.'  These  heresies,  he  says, 
as  he  never  tried  to  propagate  them,  or  to  dispute  over 
them,  'without  additions  of  new  fuel,  went  out  insensibly 
of  themselves.'  Yet  he  still  retained,  in  spite  of  its 
supposed  heterodoxy,  some  hope  for  the  fate  of  virtuous 
heathens.  'Amongst  so  many  subdivisions  of  hell,'  he 
says,  '  there  might  have  been  one  limbo  left  for  these.'  With 
a  most  characteristic  turn,  he  softens  the  horror  of  the 
reflection  by  giving  it  an  almost  humorous  aspect.  '  What 
a  strange  vision  will  it  be,'  he  exclaims,  '  to  see  their  poetical 
fictions  converted  into  verities,  and  their  imagined  and 
fancied  furies  into  real  devils  !  How  strange  to  them  will 
sound  the  history  of  Adam,  when  they  shall  suffer  for  him 
they  never  heard  of  ! ' 

The  words  may  remind  us  of  an  often-quoted  passage 
from  Tertullian  ;  but  the  Father  seems  to  gloat  over  the 
appalling  doctrines  from  which  the  philosophical  humorist 
shrinks,  even  though  their  very  horror  has  a  certain  strange 
fascination  for  his  fancy.  Heresies  such  as  these  will  not  be 
harshly  condemned  at  the  present  day.  From  others  of  a 
different  kind,  Sir  Thomas  is  shielded  by  his  natural  love  of 
the  marvellous.  He  loves  to  abandon  his  thoughts  to  mys- 
terious contemplations  ;  he  even  considers  it  a  subject  for 
complaint  that  there  are  '  not  impossibilities  enough  in 
reh'gion  for  an  active  faith.'  'I  love,'  he  says,  'to  lose 
myself  in  a  mystery  ;  to  pursue  my  reason  to  an  O  altitudo  ! 
'Tis  my  solitary  recreation  to  pose  my  apprehension  with 
those  involved  enigmas  and  riddles  of  the  Trinity,  incar- 
nation, and  resurrection.  I  can  answer  all  the  objections 
of  Satan  and  my  rebellious  reason  with  that  odd  resolution 
I  learnt  of  1  ertuUian,  cerium  est  quia  hnpossil^ile  est.'  He 
rejoices  that  he  was  not  an  Israelite  at  the  passage  of  the 


286  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

Red  Sea,  or  an  early  Christian  in  the  days  of  miracles  ;  for 
then  his  faith,  supported  by  his  senses,  would  have  had  less 
merit.  He  loves  to  puzzle  and  confound  his  understanding 
with  the  thoughts  that  pass  the  limits  of  our  intellectual 
powers :  he  rejoices  in  contemplating  eternity,  because 
nobody  can  '  speak  of  it  without  a  solecism,'  and  to  plunge 
his  imagination  into  the  abysses  of  the  infinite.  '  When  I 
cannot  satisfy  my  reason,'  he  says,  '  I  love  to  recreate  my 
fancy.'  He  recreates  it  by  soaring  into  the  regions  where 
the  most  daring  metaphysical  logic  breaks  down  beneath 
us,  and  delights  in  exposing  his  reason  to  the  rude  test  of 
believing  both  sides  of  a  contradiction.  Here,  as  every- 
where, the  strangest  freaks  of  fancy  intrude  themselves 
into  his  sublime  contemplations.  A  mystic,  when  abasing 
reason  in  the  presence  of  faith,  may  lose  sight  of  earthly 
objects  in  the  splendour  of  the  beatific  vision.  But  Sir 
Thomas,  even  when  he  enters  the  holiest  shrine,  never 
quite  loses  his  grasp  of  the  grotesque.  Wonder,  whether 
produced  by  the  sublime  or  the  simply  curious,  has  equal 
attraction  for  him.  His  mind  is  distracted  between  the 
loftiest  mysteries  of  Christianity  and  the  strangest  conceits 
of  Talmudists  or  schoolmen.  Thus,  for  example,  whilst 
eloquently  descanting  on  the  submissiveness  of  his  reason, 
he  informs  us  (obviously  claiming  credit  for  the  sacrifice  of 
his  curiosity)  that  he  can  read  of  the  raising  of  Lazarus,  and 
yet  refrain  from  raising  a  '  law  case  whether  his  heir  might 
lawfully  detain  his  inheritance  bequeathed  unto  him  by  his 
death,  and  he,  though  restored  to  life,  have  no  plea  or  title 
unto  his  former  possessions.'  Or  we  might  take  the  inverse 
transition  from  the  absurd  to  the  sublime,  in  his  meditations 
upon  hell.  He  begins  by  inquiring  whether  the  everlasting 
fire    is   the  same  with  that  of  our  earth.     '  Some  of  our 


S/J^    THOMAS  BROWNE  287 

chymicks,'  it  ai)pcars,  '  facetiously  afifirm  that,  at  the  last 
fire,  all  shall  be  crystallised  and  reverberated  into  glass,' 
but,  after  playing  for  some  time  with  this  and  other  strange 
fancies,  he  says  in  a  loftier  strain,  though  still  with  his  odd 
touch  of  humour,  '  Men  speak  too  popularly  who  place  it  in 
those  flaming  mountains,  which,  to  grosser  apprehensions, 
represent  hell.  The  heart  of  men  is  the  place  the  devils 
dwell  in.  I  feel  sometimes  a  hell  within  myself;  Lucifer 
keeps  his  courts  in  my  breast  ;  Legion  is  revived  in  me. 
There  was  more  than  one  hell  in  Magdalene,  when  there 
were  seven  devils ;  for  every  devil  is  a  hell  unto  himself ; 
he  holds  enough  of  torture  in  his  own  ubi,  and  needs  not 
the  misery  of  circumference  to  afflict  him  ;  and  thus  a 
distracted  conscience  here  is  a  shadow  or  introduction  into 
hell  hereafter.' 

Sir  Thomas's  witticisms  are  like  the  grotesque  carvings 
in  a  Gothic  cathedral.  It  is  plain  that  in  his  mind  they  have 
not  the  slightest  tinge  of  conscious  irreverence.  They  are 
simply  his  natural  mode  of  expression  ;  forbid  him  to  be 
humorous,  and  you  might  as  well  forbid  him  to  speak  at  all. 
If  the  severity  of  our  modern  taste  is  shocked  at  an  inter- 
mixture which  seemed  natural  enough  to  his  contemporaries, 
we  may  find  an  unconscious  apology  in  a  singularly  fine 
passage  of  the  '  Religio  Medici.'  Justifying  his  love  of 
church  music,  he  says,  '  Even  that  vulgar  and  tavern  music, 
which  makes  one  man  merry,  another  mad,  strikes  in  me  a 
deep  fit  of  devotion,  and  a  profound  contemplation  of  the 
first  composer.'  That  power  of  extracting  deep  devotion 
from  '  vulgar  tavern  music '  is  the  great  secret  of  Browne's 
eloquence.  It  is  not  wonderful,  perhaps,  that,  with  our 
associations,  the  performance  seems  of  (juestionable  taste  ; 
and  that  some  strains  of  tavern  music  mix  unpleasantly  in 


288  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

the  grander  harmonies  which  they  suggest.  Few  people 
find  their  reUgious  emotions  stimulated  by  the  performance 
of  a  nigger  melody,  and  they  have  some  difficulty  in  keeping 
pace  with  a  mind  which  springs  in  happy  unconsciousness, 
or  rather  in  keen  enjoyment,  of  the  contrast  from  the  queer 
or  commonplace  to  the  most  exalted  objects  of  human 
thought. 

One  other  peculiarity  shows  itself  chiefly  in  the  last 
pages  of  the  '  Religio  Medici.'  His  worthy  commentators 
have  laboured  to  defend  Sir  Thomas  from  the  charge  of 
vanity.  He  expatiates  upon  his  own  universal  charity  ;  upon 
his  inability  to  regard  even  vice  as  a  fitting  object  for  satire ; 
upon  his  warm  affection  to  his  friend,  whom  he  already 
loves  better  than  himself,  and  whom  yet  in  a  few  months 
he  will  regard  with  a  love  which  will  make  his  present  feel- 
ings seem  indifference  ;  upon  his  absolute  want  of  avarice 
or  any  kind  of  meanness  ;  and,  which  certainly  seems  a 
little  odd  in  the  midst  of  these  self-laudations,  upon  his 
freedom  from  the  '  first  and  father  sin,  not  only  of  man, 
but  of  the  devil,  pride.'  Good  Dr.  Watts  was  shocked  at 
this  'arrogant  temerity,'  and  Dr.  Johnson  appears  rather  to 
concur  in  the  charge.  And  certainly,  if  we  are  to  interpret 
his  language  in  a  matter-of-fact  spirit,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  a  gentleman  who  openly  claims  for  himself  the  virtues 
of  charity,  generosity,  courage,  and  modesty,  might  be  not 
unfairly  accused  of  vanity.  To  no  one,  as  we  have  already 
remarked,  is  such  a  matter-of-fact  criticism  less  applicable. 
If  a  humorist  was  to  be  denied  the  right  of  saying  with  a 
serious  face  what  he  does  not  quite  think,  we  should  make 
strange  work  of  some  of  the  most  charming  books  in  the  world. 
The  Sir  Thomas  Browne  of  the  '  Religio  Medici '  is  by  no 
means  to  be  identified  with  the  everyday  flesh-and-blood 


AV/v*    THOMAS  BROWNE  289 

physician  of  Norwich.  He  is  the  ideal  and  glorified  Sir 
Thomas,  and  represents  rather  what  ought  to  have  been  than 
what  was.  \\q  all  have  such  doubles  who  visit  us  in  our 
day-dreams  and  sometimes  cheat  us  into  the  belief  that  they 
arc  our  real  selves,  but  most  of  us  luckily  hide  the  very 
existence  of  such  phantoms  ;  for  few  of  us,  indeed,  could 
make  them  agreeable  to  our  neighbours.  And  yet  the 
apology  is  scarcely  needed.  Bating  some  few  touches,  Sir 
Thomas  seems  to  have  claimed  little  that  he  did  not  really 
possess.  And  if  he  was  a  little  vain,  why  should  we  be 
angry  ?  Vanity  is  only  offensive  when  it  is  sullen  or  exact- 
ing. When  it  merely  amounts  to  an  unaffected  pleasure  in 
dwelling  on  the  peculiarities  of  a  man's  own  character,  it  is 
rather  an  agreeable  literary  ingredient.  Sir  Thomas  defines, 
his  point  of  view  with  his  usual  felicity.  'The  world  that  I 
regard,'  he  says  in  the  spirit  of  the  imprisoned  Richard  II., 
'  is  myself  :  it  is  the  microcosm  of  my  own  frame  that  I 
cast  mine  eye  on  ;  for  the  other,  I  use  it  but  like  my  globe, 
and  turn  it  round  sometimes  for  my  recreation.'  That 
whimsical  inversion  of  the  natural  order  is  the  key  to  the 
'  Religio  Medici.'  We,  for  the  nonce,  are  to  regard  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  as  a  world,  and  to  study  the  marvels  of  his 
microcosm  instead  of  the  outside  wonders.  And  no  one 
can  deny  that  it  is  a  good  and  kindly  world  — a  world  full  of 
the  strangest  combinations,  where  even  the  most  sacred  are 
allied  with  the  oddest  objects.  Yet  his  imagination  every- 
where diffuses  a  solemn  light  such  as  that  which  falls  through 
painted  windows,  and  which  somehow  harmonises  the  whole 
quaint  assemblage  of  images.  The  sacred  is  made  more 
interesting  instead  of  being  degraded  by  its  association  with 
the  quaint ;  and  on  the  whole,  after  a  stay  in  this  micro- 

VOL.  I.  u 


290  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

cosm,  we  feel  better,  calmer,  more  tolerant,  and  a  good  deal 
more  amused  than  when  we  entered  it. 

Passing  from  the  portrait  to  the  original,  we  may  recog- 
nise, or  fancy  that  we  recognise,  the  same  general  features. 
Sir  Thomas  assures  us  that  his  life,  up  to  the  period  of  the 
'  Religio  Medici,'  was  a  '  miracle  of  thirty  years,  which  to 
relate  were  not  a  history,  but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would 
sound  to  common  ears  like  a  fable.'  Johnson,  with  his 
usual  sense,  observes  that  it  is  rather  difficult  to  detect  the 
miraculous  element  in  any  part  of  the  story  open  to  our 
observation.  'Surely,'  he  says,  '  a  man  may  visit  France 
and  Italy,  reside  at  Montpelier  and  Padua,  and  at  last  take 
his  degree  at  Leyden,  without  anything  miraculous.'  And 
although  Southey  endeavours  to  maintain  that  the  miracle 
consisted  in  Browne's  preservation  from  infidelity,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  to  the  ordinary  mind  that  result  seems 
explicable  by  natural  causes.  We  must  be  content  with 
Johnson's  explanation,  that,  in  some  sense,  'all  life  is 
miraculous  ; '  and,  in  short,  that  the  strangeness  consists 
rather  in  Browne's  view  of  his  own  history,  than  in  any  un- 
usual phenomena.  Certainly,  no  man  seems  on  the  whole 
to  have  slipped  down  the  stream  of  life  more  smoothly. 
After  his  travels  he  settled  quietly  at  Norwich,  and  there 
passed  forty-five  years  of  scarcely  interrupted  prosperity. 
In  the  '  Religio  Medici '  he  indulges  in  some  disparaging 
remarks  upon  marriage.  'The  whole  world,'  he  says,  'was 
made  for  man  ;  but  the  twelfth  part  of  man  for  woman. 
Man  is  the  whole  world  and  the  breath  of  God  ;  woman  the 
rib  and  crooked  part  of  man.'  He  wishes,  after  the  fashion 
of  Montaigne,  that  we  might  grow  like  the  trees,  and  avoid 
this  foolish  and  trivial  ceremony  ;  and  therefore — for  such 
inferences    are    perfectly    legitimate    in    the    history    of    a 


S/A'    THOMAS  BROWNE  291 

humorist — he  married  a  lady,  of  whom  it  is  said  that  she 
was  so  perfect  that '  they  seemed  to  come  together  by  a  kind 
of  natural  magnetism,'  had    ten    children,  and  lived  very 
happily  ever  afterwards.     It  is  not  difficult,  from  the  frag- 
mentary notices  that  have  been  left  to  us,  to  put  together 
some  picture  of  his  personal  appearance.     He  was  a  man 
of  dignified   appearance,  with   a  striking  resemblance,  as 
Southey  has  remarked,  to  Charles  I.,  '  always  cheerful,  but 
never  merry,'  given  to  unseasonable  blushing,  little  inclined 
to  talk,  but  strikingly  original  when  once  launched  in  con- 
versation ;  sedate   in  his  dress,  and  obeying   some   queer 
medical  crotchets  as  to  its  proper  arrangement ;  always  at 
work    in    the   intervals    of    his    '  drudging   practice ; '    and 
generally   a   sober   and   dignified   physician.     From   some 
letters  which  have  been  preserved  we  catch  a  view  of  his 
social  demeanour.     He  was  evidently  an  affectionate  and 
liberal  father,  with  good  old  orthodox  views  of  the  wide 
extent  of  the  paternal  prerogative.     One  of  his  sons  was  a 
promising  naval  officer,  and  sends  home  from  beyond  the 
seas  accounts  of  such  curiosities  as  were  likely  to  please  the 
insatiable  curiosity  of  his  parent.     In  his  answers,  the  good 
Sir  Thomas  quotes  Aristotle's  definition  of  fortitude  for  the 
benefit  of  his  gallant  lieutenant,  and  argues  elaborately  to 
dissuade  him  from  a  practice  which  he  believes  to  prevail 
in  '  the  king's  shipps,  when,  in  desperate  cases,  they  blow 
up  the  same.'     He  proves  by  most  excellent  reasons,  and 
by  the  authority  of  Plutarch,  that  such  self-immolation  is  an 
unnecessary  strain  of  gallantry  ;  yet  somehow  we  feel  rather 
glad  that  Sir  Thomas  could  not  be  a  witness  to  the  reception 
of  this  sensible,  but  perhaps  rather  superfiuous,  advice,  in 
the  messroom  of  the  '  Marie  Rose.'     It  is  more  pleasant  to 
observe  the  carefulness  with  which  he  has  treasured  up  and 

u  2 


292  HOURS  IN  A   IJBRARY 

repeats  all  the  compliments  to  the  Ueutenant's  valour  and 
wisdom  which  have  reached  him  from  trustworthy  sources. 
This    son   appears  to  have  died  at  a  comparatively  early 
age  ;  but  with  the  elder  son,  Edward— who,  like  his  father, 
travelled  in  various  parts  of  Europe,   and  then  became  a 
distinguished  physician— he  maintained  a  long  correspon- 
dence, full  of  those  curious  details  in  which  his  soul  delighted. 
His  son,  for  example,  writes  from  Prague  that  'in  the  mines 
at  Brunswick  is  reported  to  be  a  spirit ;  and  another  at  the 
tin  mine  at  Stackenwald,  in  the  shape  of  a  monke,  which 
strikes  the  miners,  playeth  on  the  bagpipes,  and  many  such 
tricks.'     They   correspond,    however,    on   more    legitimate 
inquiries,  and  especially  on  the  points  to  be  noticed  in  the 
son's  medical  lectures.     Sir  Thomas  takes  a  keen  interest 
in  the  fate  of  an  unlucky  '  oestridge '  which  found  its  way 
to  London  in  t68i,  and  was  doomed  to  illustrate  some  of 
the  vulgar  errors.     The  poor  bird  was  induced  to  swallow  a 
piece  of  iron  weighing  two  and  a-half  ounces,  which,  strange 
to  say,  it  could  not  digest.     It  soon  afterwards  died  '  of  a 
soden,'  either  from  the  severity  of  the  weather  or  from  the 
peculiar  nature  of  its  diet. 

In  one  well-known  case  Sir  Thomas's  peculiar  theories 
received  a  more  unfortunate  application  ;  he  contributed  by 
his  evidence  to  the  death  of  the  witches  tried  by  Hale  in 
1664  ;  and  one  could  wish  that  in  this  case  his  love  of  the 
wonderful  had  been  more  checked  by  his  sense  of  humour. 
The  fact  that  he  was  knighted  by  Charles  II.  in  1671  is 
now  memorable  only  for  Johnson's  characteristic  remark. 
The  lexicographer's  love  of  truth  and  loyalty  to  his  pet 
monarch  struggle  with  each  other  in  the  equivocal  compli- 
ment to  Charles's  virtue  in  rewarding  excellence  '  with  such 
honorary  distinctions  at  least  as  cost  him  nothing.'     The 


S/J^    THOMAS   BROWNE  293 

good  doctor  died  in  1682,  in  the  seventy-seventh  year  of  his 
age,  and  met  his  end,  as  we  are  assured,  in  the  spirit  of  his  own 
writings.  '  There  is,'  he  admirably  says,  '  but  one  comfort 
left,  that,  though  it  be  in  the  power  of  the  weakest  arm  to  take 
away  life,  it  is  not  in  the  strongest  to  deprive  us  of  death.' 
Most  men,  for  one  reason  or  another,  have  at  times  been 
*  half  in  love  with  easeful  death.'  Sir  Thomas  gives  his 
view  more  fully  in  another  passage,  in  which  he  says,  with 
his  usual  quaint  and  eloquent  melancholy,  'When  I  take 
a  full  view  and  circle  of  myself,  without  this  reasonable 
moderator  and  equal  piece  of  justice,  death,  I  do  conceive 
myself  the  miserablest  person  extant.  Were  there  not  an- 
other life  that  I  hope  for,  all  the  vanities  of  this  world  should 
not  entreat  a  moment's  breath  from  me.  Could  the  devil 
work  my  belief  to  imagine  I  could  never  die,  I  could  not 
outlive  that  very  thought.  I  have  so  abject  a  conceit  of  this 
common  way  of  existence,  this  retaining  to  the  sun  and 
elements,  I  cannot  think  this  to  be  a  man,  or  to  have 
according  to  the  dignity  of  humanity.  In  expectation  of  a 
better,  I  can  with  patience  embrace  this  life,  yet,  in  my  best 
meditations,  do  often  defy  death.' 

'  What,  after  all,  one  is  inclined  to  ask,  is  the  secret  of 
the  strange  charm  of  Sir  Thomas's  style  ?  Will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  give  us  the  old  doctor's  literary  prescription,  that 
we  may  produce  the  same  effects  at  will  ?  In  what  propor- 
tions shall  we  mingle  humour,  imagination,  and  learning? 
How  are  we  to  select  the  language  which  will  be  the  fittest 
vehicle  for  the  thought  ?  or  rather,  for  the  metaphor  is  a 
little  too  mechanical,  what  were  the  magic  spells  with  which 
he  sways  our  imaginative  moods  ?  Like  other  spells,  we 
must  reply  it  is  incommunicable  :  no  real  answer  can  be 
given  even  by  critics  who,  like  Coleridge  and  De  Quincey, 


294  HOURS  TN  A    LIBRARY 

show  something  of  the  same  power.  Coarser  observers  can 
only  point  to  such  external  peculiarities  as  the  Latinisms  in 
which  he  indulges  even  more  freely  than  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries. To  Johnson  they  seemed  '  pedantic  ; '  to  most 
modern  readers  they  have  an  old-world  charm  ;  but  in  any 
case  we  know  little  more  of  Sir  Thomas  when  we  have  ob- 
served that  he  is  capable  of  using  for  '  hanging  '  the  peri- 
phrasis '  illaqueation  or  pendulous  suffocation.'  The  perusal 
of  a  page  will  make  us  recognise  what  could  not  be  explained 
in  a  whole  volume  of  analysis.  One  may,  however,  hazard 
a  remark  upon  the  special  mood  which  is  clothed  or 
incarnated  in  his  stately  rhetoric.  The  imagination  of  Sir 
Thomas,  of  course,  shows  the  generic  qualities  roughly 
described  as  Northern,  Gothic,  Teutonic,  or  romantic.  He 
writes  about  tombs,  and  all  Englishmen,  as  M.  Taine  tells 
us,  like  to  write  about  tombs.  When  we  try  to  find  the 
specific  differences  which  distinguish  it  from  other  imagina- 
tions of  similar  quality,  we  should  be  inclined  to  define  him  as 
belonging  to  a  very  rare  intellectual  family.  He  is  a  mystic 
with  a  sense  of  humour,  or  rather  his  habitual  mood  is 
determined  by  an  attraction  towards  the  two  opposite 
poles  of  humour  and  mysticism.  He  concludes  two  of 
his  treatises  (the  '  Christian  Morals  '  and  '  Urn  Burial ')  in 
words  expressive  of  one  of  these  tendencies  :  '  If  any  have 
been  so  happy  as  personally  to  understand  Christian  annihi- 
lation, ecstacy,  exolution,  transformation,  the  kiss  of  the 
spouse,  and  ingression  into  the  divine  shadow  according 
to  mystical  theology,  they  have  already  had  an  handsome 
anticipation  of  heaven  ;  the  world  is  in  a  manner  over 
and  the  earth  in  ashes  unto  them.'  Many  of  Sir  Thomas's 
reflections,  his  love  in  spiritualising  external  emblems,  as, 
for  example,    in  the  reflections  on   the  quincunx,  and  the 


S/R    THOMAS   BROWNE  295 

almost  sensuous  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  a  mystery, 

show   the   same   bent.     The   fully-developed  mystic  loses 

sight  of  the  world  and  its  practical  duties  in  the  rapture  of 

formless  meditations  ;  facts  become  shadows,  and  emotions 

the  only  realities.     But  the  presence  of  a  mystical  element 

is  the  mark  of  all  lofty  imaginations.     The  greatest  poet  is 

he  who  feels  most  deeply  and  habitually  that  our '  litde  lives 

are  rounded  with  a  sleep  ; '  that  we  are  but   atoms  in  the 

boundless  abysses  of  space  and  time  ;  that  the  phenomenal 

world  is  but  a  transitory  veil,    to   be   valued    only   as  its 

contemplation  arouses  or  disciplines  our  deepest  emotions. 

Capacity   for   passing   from    the   finite   to  the  infinite,  for 

interpreting   the   high   instincts   before   which   our    mortal 

nature 

'  Doth  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised,' 

is  the  greatest  endowment  of  the  Shakespeares  and  Dantes. 
Mysticism  proper  is  the  abuse  of  this  tendency,  which 
prompts  to  the  impossible  feat  of  soaring  altogether  beyond 
the  necessary  base  of  concrete  realities.  The  mystic 
temperament  is  balanced  in  some  great  men,  as  in  Shake- 
speare, by  their  intense  interest  in  human  passion  ;  in 
others,  as  in  Wordsworth,  by  their  profound  sense  of  the 
primary  importance  of  the  moral  law  ;  and  in  others,  as  in 
Jeremy  Taylor,  by  their  hold  upon  the  concrete  imagery  of 
a  traditional  theology ;  whilst  to  some,  the  mystic  vision  is 
strangely  blended  with  an  acceptance  of  the  epicurean 
precept.  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die.  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  seems  to  be  held  back  from  abandoning 
himself  to  the  ecstasies  of  abstract  meditation,  chiefly  by 
his  peculiar  sense  of  humour.  There  is  a  closer  connection 
than  we  are  always  willing  to  admit  between  humour  and 
profanity.     Humour  is  the  faculty  which  always  keeps  us 


296  HOURS  IN  A   LTBRARY 

in  mind  of  the  absurdity  which  is  the  shadow  of  sublimity. 
It  is  naturally  aUied  to  intellectual  scepticism,  as  in  Rabelais 
or  Montaigne ;  and  Sir  Thomas  shared  the  tendency 
sufficiently  to  be  called  atheist  by  some  wiseacres.  But 
his  humour  was  too  gentle  to  suggest  scepticism  of  the 
aggressive  kind.  It  is  almost  too  free  from  cynicism.  He 
cannot  adopt  any  dogma  unreservedly;  but  neither  does  any 
dogma  repel  him.  He  revels  in  the  mental  attitude  of  hope- 
less perplexity,  which  is  simply  unendurable  to  the  common- 
place and  matter-of-fact  intellects.  He  likes  to  be  balanced 
between  opposing  difficulties  ;  to  play  with  any  symbol  of 
worship  without  actually  worshipping  it  ;  to  prostrate  him- 
self sincerely  at  many  shrines,  and  yet  with  a  half  smile 
on  his  lips.  He  cannot  be  a  rhetorician  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word  ;  he  would  have  been  hopelessly  out  of 
place  on  the  floor  of  the  senate,  stirring  men's  patriotism  or 
sense  of  right ;  for  half  his  sympathy  would  always  be  with 
the  Opposition.  He  could  not  have  moved  the  tears  or 
the  devotional  ecstasies  of  a  congregation,  for  he  has  too 
vivid  a  sense  that  any  and  every  dogma  is  but  one  side  of 
an  inevitable  antinomy.  Strong  convictions  are  needed 
for  the  ordinary  controversial  successes,  and  his  favourite 
point  of  view  is  the  centre  from  which  all  convictions 
radiate  and  all  look  equally  probable.  But  then,  instead  of 
mocking  at  all,  he  sympathises  with  all,  and  expresses  the 
one  sentiment  which  may  be  extracted  from  their  collision  — 
the  sentiment  of  reverence  blended  with  scepticism.  It 
is  a  contradictory  sentiment,  one  may  say,  in  a  sense,  but 
the  essence  of  humour  is  to  be  contradictory.  The  language 
in  which  he  utters  himself  was  determined  by  his  omni- 
vorous appetite  for  every  quaint  or  significant  symbol  to 
be  discovered  in  the  whole  field  of  learning.     With  no  pre- 


.?//?    THOMAS   BROIVXE  297 

judices,  nothing  comes  amiss  to  him  ;  and  the  signature 
of  some  mysterious  principle  may  be  found  in  every  object 
of  art  or  nature.  Science  in  its  infancy  was  still  half 
mystic,  and  the  facts  which  he  gathered  were  all  tinged  with 
the  semi-mythical  fancies  of  the  earliest  explorers  of  the 
secrets  of  nature.  In  an  old  relic,  recalling  '  the  drums  and 
tramplings  of  three  conquests,'  in  a  queer  annual,  or  an 
ancient  fragment  of  history  might  be  the  appropriate 
emblem,  or  something  more  than  the  emblem  of  a  truth 
equally  impressive  to  the  scientific  and  the  poetical  imagina- 
tion. He  would  have  been  happy  by  the  midnight  lamp 
in  Milton's  '  high  lonely  tower  ; '  but  his  humour  would 
look  at  the  romances  which  Milton  loved  rather  with  the 
eyes  of  Cervantes  than  of  Milton.  Their  tone  of  sentiment 
would  be  too  strained  and  highflown  ;  and  he  would  prefer 
to  read  of  the  spirits  that  are  found 

'  In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground,' 

or  to  try  to  penetrate  the  secret  of 

'  Every  star  that  heaven  doth  show. 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew,' 

by  reading  all  the  nonsense  that  had  been  written  about 
them  in  the  dawn  of  inquiry.  He  should  be  read  in  a 
corresponding  spirit.  One  should  often  stop  to  appreciate 
the  full  flavour  of  some  quaint  allusion,  or  lay  down  the 
book  to  follow  out  some  diverging  line  of  thought.  So  read 
in  a  retired  study,  or  beneath  the  dusty  shelves  of  an 
ancient  library,  a  page  of  Sir  Thomas  seems  to  revive  the 
echoes  as  of  ancient  chants  in  college  chapels,  strangely 
blended  with  the  sonorous  perorations  of  professors  in  the 
neighbouring  schools,  so  that  the  interferences  sometimes 


298  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

produce  a  note  of  gentle  mockery  and  sometimes  heighten 
solemnity  by  quaintness. 

That,  however,  is  not  the  spirit  in  which  books  are  often 
read  in  these  days.  We  have  an  appetite  for  useful  infor- 
mation, and  an  appetite  for  frivolous  sentiment  or  purely 
poetical  musing.  We  cannot  combine  the  two  after  the 
quaint  fashion  of  the  old  physician.  And  therefore  these 
charming  writings  have  ceased  to  suit  our  modern  taste  ; 
and  Sir  Thomas  is  already  passing  under  that  shadow  of 
mortality  which  obscures  all,  even  the  greatest,  reputations, 
and  with  which  no  one  has  dealt  more  pathetically  or 
graphically  than  himself. 

If  we  are  disposed  to  complain,  Sir  Thomas  shall  him- 
self supply  the  answer,  in  a  passage  from  the  '  Hydriotaphia,' 
which,  though,  described  by  Hallam  as  the  best  written  of 
his  treatises,  is  not  to  my  taste  so  attractive  as  the  '  Religio 
Medici.'  The  concluding  chapter,  however,  is  in  his  best 
style,  and  here  are  some  of  his  reflections  on  posthumous 
fame.  The  end  of  the  world,  he  says,  is  approaching,  and 
'  Charles  V.  can  never  hope  to  live  within  two  Methuselahs 
of  Hector.'  '  And,  therefore,  restless  inquietude  for  the 
diuturnity  of  our  memories  with  present  considerations 
seems  a  vanity  out  of  date,  and  a  superannuated  piece  of 
folly.  We  cannot  hope  to  live  as  long  in  our  names  as 
some  have  done  in  their  persons.  One  face  of  Janus  holds 
no  proportion  to  the  other.  'Tis  too  late  to  be  ambitious. 
The  great  mutations  of  the  world  are  acted,  or  time  may 
be  too  short  for  our  designs.  To  extend  our  memories 
by  monuments,  whose  death  we  daily  pray  for,  and  whose 
duration  we  cannot  hope  without  injury  to  our  expectations 
in  the  advent  of  the  last  day,  were  a  contradiction  to  our 
beliefs.     We,  whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this  setting 


5/A'    THOMAS   BROWNE  299 

part  of  time,  are  providentially  taken  off  from  such  imagina- 
tions ;  and  being  necessitated  to  eye  the  remaining  particle 
of  futurity,  are  naturally  constituted  into  thoughts  of  the 
next  world,  and  cannot  excusably  decline  the  consideration 
of  that  duration,  which  maketh  pyramids  pillars  of  snow, 
and  all  that's  past  a  moment.' 

If  the  argument  has  now  been  vulgarised  in  the  hands 
of  Dr.  Gumming  and  his  like,  the  language  and  the  senti- 
ment are  worthy  of  any  of  our  greatest  masters. 


300  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS^ 

Two  of  the  ablest  thinkers  whom  America  has  yet  pro- 
duced were  born  in  New  England  at  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  theorists  who  would  trace  all  our 
characteristics  to  inheritance  from  some  remote  ancestor 
might  see  in  Jonathan  Edwards  and  Benjamin  Franklin 
normal  representatives  of  the  two  types  from  which  the 
genuine  Yankee  is  derived.  Though  blended  in  various 
proportions,  and  though  one  may  exist  almost  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  the  other,  an  element  of  shrewd  mother-wit  and  an 
element  of  transcendental  enthusiasm  are  to  be  detected  in 
all  who  boast  a  descent  from  the  pilgrim  fathers.  Franklin, 
born  in  1706,  represents  in  its  fullest  development  the  more 
earthly  side  of  this  compound.  A  thoroughbred  utilitarian, 
full  of  sagacity,  and  carrying  into  all  regions  of  thought  that 
strange  ingenuity  which  makes  an  American  the  handiest  of 
all  human  beings,  Franklin  is  best  embodied  in  his  own 
Poor  Richard.  Honesty  is  the  best  policy  :  many  a  little 
makes  a  mickle  :  the  second  vice  is  lying,  the  first  is  running 
in  debt ;  and — 

'  Ge*^  what  you  can,  and  what  you  get  hold  ; 
'Tis  the  stone  that  will  turn  all  your  lead  into  gold.' 

These  and  a  string  of  similar  maxims  are  the  pith  of 
Franklin's  message  to  the  world.     Franklin,  however,  was 
The  Works  of  President  Edwards.     Worcester  (Mass.),  1808. 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  301 

not  merely  a  man  in  whom  the  practical  intelligence  was 
developed  in  a  very  remarkable  degree,  but  was  fortunate  in 
coming  upon  a  crisis   admirably  suited  to  his  abilities,  and 
in   being  generally   in   harmony  with  the  spirit  of  his  age. 
He  succeeded,  as  we  know,  in  snatching  lightning  from  the 
heavens,  and  the  sceptre  from  t\Tants ;  and  had  his  reward 
in  the  shape  of  much  contemporary  homage  from  French 
philosophers,  and  lasting  renown  amongst  his  countrymen. 
Meanwhile  Jonathan  Edwards,  his  senior  by  three  years, 
had    the   fate  common  to  men  who  are  unfitted  for  the 
struggles  of  daily  life,  and  whose  philosophy  does  not   har- 
monise with  the  dominant  current  of  the  time.     A  specula- 
tive recluse,  with  little  faculty  of  literary  expression,  and 
given  to  utter  opinions  shocking  to  the  popular  mind,  he 
excited  little  attention  during  his  lifetime,  except  amongst 
the   sharers  of  his  own  religious  persuasions  ;  and,  when 
noticed  after  his  death,  the  praise  of  his  intellectual  acute- 
ness  has  generally  been  accompanied  with  an  expression  of 
abhorrence  for  his  supposed  moral  obtuseness.     Mr.  Lecky, 
for  example,  whilst  speaking  of  Edwards  as  '  probably  the 
ablest   defender   of  Calvinism,'   mentions   his   treatise  on 
Original  Sin  as  '  one  of  the  most  revolting  books  that  have 
ever  proceeded  from  the  pen  of  man  '  ( '  Rationalism,'  i.  404). 
That   intense   dislike,  which   is  far   from    uncommon,   for 
severe  reasoning   has  even   made   a  kind   of  reproach   to 
Edwards  of  what  is  called  his  '  inexorable  logic'     To  con- 
demn a  man   for  being  honestly  in   the  wrong  is  generally 
admitted  to  be  unreasonable  ;  but  people  are  even  more 
unforgiving  to  the  sin  of  being  honestly  in  the  right.     The 
frankness  with  which  Edwards  avowed  opinions,  not  by  any 
means  peculiar  to  himself,  has  left  a  certain  stain  upon  his 
reputation.     He  has  also  suffered  in  general  repute  from  a 


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cause   which   should    really   increase   our   interest    in    his 
writings.     Metaphysicians,   whilst  admiring   his  acuteness, 
have   been   disgusted    by   his   adherence   to   an    outworn 
theology  ;  and  theologians  have  cared  little  for  a  man  who 
was  primarily  a  philosophical  speculator,  and  has  used  his 
philosophy  to  bring  into  painful   relief  the  most  terrible 
dogmas  of  the  ancient  creeds.     Edwards,  however,  is  inte- 
resting just  because  he  is  a  connecting  link  between  two 
widely  different  phases  of  thought.     He  connects  the  expiring 
Calvinism  of  the  old  Puritan  theocracy  with  what  is  called 
the  transcendentalism  embodied  in  the  writings  of  Emerson 
and  other  leaders  of  young  America.     He  is  remarkable,  too. 
as  illustrating,  at  the  central  point  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
those  speculative  tendencies  which  were  most  vitally  opposed 
to  the  then  dominant  philosophy  of  Locke  and  Hume.    And, 
finally,  there  is  a  still  more  permanent   interest  in  the  man 
himself,  as  exhibiting  in  high  relief  the  weak  and  the  strong 
points   of  the   teaching    of    which    Calvinism    represents 
only   one   embodiment.     His  life,   in  striking  contrast   to 
that  of  his  more  celebrated  contemporary,  ran   its  course 
far  away  from  the   main   elements    of  European   activity. 
With    the   exception    of    a    brief  stay   at    New   York,    he 
lived  almost  exclusively  in   the  interior  of  what  was  then 
the   thinly-settled  colony   of  Massachusetts.'       His  father 
was  for  nearly  sixty  years  minister  of  a  church   in  Connecti 
cut,   and   his    mother's   father,    the    '  celebrated   Solomon 
Stoddard,'  foi  about  an  equal  time  minister  of  a  church  at 
Northampton,    Massachusetts.     Young   Jonathan,   brought 
up  at  the  feet  of  these  venerable  men,  after  the  strictest  sect 
of  the  Puritans,   was  sent  to  Yale  at  the  age  of  twelve, 

'  The  populalion  of  Massachusells   is  .stated  at  164,000  inhabitants 
in  1742,  and  240,000  in  1761.  —Sec  Hohnes'  Annals. 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS 


j^j 


took  his  B.A.  degree  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and  two 
years  afterwards  became  a  preacher  at  New  York. 
Thence  he  returned  to  a  tutorship  at  Yale,  but  in  his  twenty- 
fourth  year  was  ordained  as  colleague  of  his  grandfather 
Stoddard,  and  spent  at  Northampton  the  next  twenty-three 
years  of  his  life.  It  may  be  added  that  he  married  early  a 
wife  of  congenial  temper,  and  had  eleven  children.'  One 
of  his  daughters, — it  is  an  odd  combination, — was  the 
mother  of  Aaron  Burr,  the  duellist  who  killed  Hamilton, 
and  afterwards  became  the  prototype  of  all  Southern  seces- 
sionists. The  external  facts,  however,  of  Edwards'  hfe  are 
of  little  interest,  except  as  indicating  the  influences  to  which 
he  was  exposed.  Puritanism,  though  growing  faint,  was  still 
powerful  in  New  England  ;  it  was  bred  in  his  bones,  and 
he  was  drilled  from  his  earliest  years  into  its  sternest 
dogmas.  Some  curious  fragments  of  his  early  life  and  letters 
indicate  the  nature  of  his  spiritual  development  Whilst  still 
almost  a  bo)',  he  writes  down  solemn  resolutions,  and  prac- 
tises himself  in  severe  self-inspection.  He  resolves  '  never 
to  do,  be,  or  suffer  anything  in  soul  or  body,  more  or  less, 
but  what  tends  to  the  glory  of  God  ; '  to  '  live  with  all  my 
might  while  I  do  live  ; '  '  never  to  speak  anything  that  is 
ridiculous  or  matter  of  laughter  on  the  Lord's  Day '  (a  reso- 
lution which  we  might  think  rather  superfluous,  even  though 
extended  to  other  days) ;  and,  '  frequently  to  renew  the 
dedication  of  myself  to  God,  which  was  made  at  my 
baptism,  which  I  solemnly  renewed  when  I  was  received  into 
the  conmiunion  of  the  Church,  and  which  I  have  solemnly 

'  These  early  New  England  patriarchs  were  blessed  with  abundant 
families.  Edwards'  father  liad  eleven  children,  his  paternal  grand- 
father thirteen,  and  his  maternal  grandfather  had  twelve  children  by  a 
lady  who  had  already  three  children  by  a  previous  marriage. 


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ratified  this  12th  day  of  January  1723  '  (i.  18).     He  pledges 
himself,  in  short,  to  a  life  of  strict  self-examination  and  abso- 
lute devotion  to  what  he  takes  for  the  will  of  God.     Similar 
resolutions  have  doubtless  been   made  by  countless  young 
men,  brought  up  under  the  same  conditions,  and   diaries  of 
equal  value  have  been  published  by  the  authors  of  innu- 
merable saintly  biographies.     In  Edwards'  mouth,  however, 
they  really  had  a  meaning,  and  bore  corresponding   results. 
An  interesting  paper  gives  an  account  of  those  religious 
'  experiences  '  to  which  his  sect  attaches  so  tremendous  an 
importance.     From  his  childhood,  he  tells  us,  his  mind  had 
been  full  of  objections  to  the  doctrine  of  God's  sovereignty. 
It  appeared  to  him  to  be  a  '  horrible  doctrine  '  that  God 
should   choose   whom    He  would,    and   reject   whom    He 
pleased,    'leaving   them  eternally   to   perish   and    be    tor- 
mented eternally  in  hell.'     The  whole  history  of  his  intel- 
lectual development   is  involved  in   the  process  by  which 
he  became  gradually  reconciled  to  this  appalling  dogma. 
In  the  second  year  of  his  collegiate  course,   we  are  told, 
which  would  be  about  the  fourteenth    of  his  age,  he  read 
Locke's  Essay  with  inexpressible  delight.     The  first  glimpse 
of  metaphysical  inquiry,  it  would  seem,  revealed  to  him  the 
natural  bent  of  his  mind,  and  opened   to  him  the  path  of 
speculation  in  which  he  ever  afterwards  delighted.     Locke, 
though  Edwards  always  mentions  him  with  deep  respect, 
was   indeed   a   thinker   of  a   very   different   school.     The 
disciple   owed   to   his    master,    not   a    body    of    doctrine, 
but   the   impulse   to    intellectual   activity.     He   succeeded 
in  working  out  for  himself  a   satisfactory   answer   to   the 
problem  by  which  he  had   been   perplexed.       His   cavils 
ceased    as    his    reason    strengthened.       'God's     absolute 
sovereignty  and  justice  '  seemed   to   him  to  be  as  clear  as 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  305 

anything  he  saw  with   his  eyes;  'at  least,'  he  adds,   'it  is 
so  at  times.'     Nay,  he  even  came  to  rejoice  in  the  doctrine 
and  regard    it   as    'infinitely   pleasant,  bright,  and  sweet' 
(i-  ZZ)-     The  Puritan  assumptions  were  so  ingrained   in  his 
nature  that  the  agony  of  mind  which  they  caused  never  led 
him  to   question    their   truth,    though  it  animated  him  to 
discover  a  means  of  reconciling  them  to  reason  ;  and  the 
reconciliation  is  the  whole  burden  ofhis  ablest  works.     The 
effect  upon  his  mind  is  described  in  terms  which  savour  of 
a  less  stern  school  of  faith.     God's  glory  was  revealed  to 
him  throughout  the  whole  creation,  and  often  threw  him 
into  ecstasies  of  devotion  (i.  ^i).     '  God's  excellency.  His 
wisdom,  His  purity,  and  love  seemed  to  appear  in  every- 
thing :  in  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  ;  in  the  clouds  and  blue 
sky  ;  in  the  grass,  flowers,  and  trees  ;  in  the  water  and  all 
nature,  which  used  greatly  to  fix  my  mind.     I  often  used  to 
sit  and  view  the  moon  for  continuance,  and  in  the  day  spent 
much  time  in  viewing  the  clouds  and  sky,  to  behold  the 
sweet  glory  of  God  in  these  things  ;  in  the  meantime  sing- 
ing  forth,    with   a   low   voice,  my   contemplations   of  the 
Creator  and  Redeemer.'     Thunder,  he  adds,  had  once  been 
terrible  to  him  ;  '  now  scarce  anything  in  all   the  works  of 
nature '  was  so  sweet  (i.  36).     It  seemed  as  if  the  '  majestic 
and  awful  voice  of  God's  thunder '  was  in  fact  the  voice 
of  its  Creator.     Thunder  and  lightning,  we  know,  suggested 
characteristically    different     contemplations    to    Franklin. 
Edwards'  utterances  are  as  remarkable  for  their  amiability 
as  for   their  non-scientific  character.     We  see  in  him  the 
gentle  mystic  rather  than  the  stern  divine  who  consigned 
helpless  infants  to  eternal  torture  without  a  question  of  the 
goodness  of  their  Creator.     This  vein  of  meditation,  how- 
ever, continued  to  be  familiar  to  him.     He  spent  most  of 

VOL.   I.  X 


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his  time  reflecting  on  Divine  things,  and  often  walking  in 
solitary   places   and   woods  to  enjoy   uninterrupted  solilo- 
quies and  converse  with  God.     At  New  York  he  often  re- 
tired to  a  quiet  spot — now,  one  presumes,  seldom  used  for 
such   purposes — on    the   banks   of  the    Hudson   river,    to 
abandon  himself  to   his    quiet   reveries,    or   to    '  converse 
on  the  things  of  God '  with  one  Mr.  John  Smith.     To  the 
end  of  his  life  he  indulged  in  the  same  habit.     His  custom 
was  to  rise  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  spend  thirteen 
hours  daily  in  his  study,  and  to  ride  out  after  dinner  to 
some  lonely  grove,  where  he  dismounted  and  walked  by 
himself,  with  a  notebook  ready  at  hand  for  the  arrest  of  stray 
thoughts.     Evidently  he  possessed  one  of  those  rare  tem- 
peraments to  which  the  severest  intellectual  exercise  is  a 
source   of  the   keenest   enjoyment ;    and  though  he  must 
often  have  strayed  into  the  comparatively  dreary  labyrinths 
of  metaphysical   puzzles,    his   speculations  had  always  an 
immediate   reference   to    what    he    calls    '  Divina  things.' 
Once,  he  tells  us,  as  he  rode  into  the  woods,  in  1737,  and 
ahghted  according  to  custom  '  to  walk  in  Divine  contem- 
plation and  prayer,'  he  had  so  extraordinary  a  view  of  the 
glory  of  the  Son  of  God,  and  His  wonderful  grace,  that  he 
remained  for  about  an  hour  '  in  a  flood  of  tears  and  weeping 
aloud.'     This  intensity   of  spiritual  vision  Avas  frequently 
combined  with  a  harrowing  sense  of  his  own  corruption. 
'  My  wickedness,'  he  says,    '  as  I  am  in  myself,  has  long 
appeared  to  me  perfectly  ineffable ;  like  an  infinite  deluge 
or  mountains  over  my  head.'     Often,  for  many  years,  he 
has  had  in  his  mind  and  his  mouth  the  words   '  Infinite 
upon   infinite  ! '     His   heart   looks  to  him  like  '  an  abyss 
infinitely  deeper   than  hell  ; '  and  yet,   he  adds,  it  seems 
to  him  that  '  his  conviction  of  sin  is  exceedingly  small. 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  307 

Whilst  weeping  and  crying  for  his  sins,  he  seemed  to  know 
that  'his  repentance  was  nothing  to  his  sin'  (i.  41). 
Extravagant  expressions  of  this  kind  are  naturally  rather 
shocking  to  the  outsider  ;  and,  to  those  who  are  incapable 
of  sympathising,  they  may  even  appear  to  be  indications  of 
hypocrisy.  Nobody  was  more  alive  than  Edwards  himself 
to  the  danger  of  using  such  phrases  mechanically.  When 
you  call  yourself  the  worst  of  men,  he  says,  be  careful  that 
you  do  not  think  highly  of  yourself  just  because  you  think 
so  meanly.  And  if  you  reply,  'No,  I  have  not  a  high 
opinion  of  my  humility  ;  it  seems  to  me  I  am  as  proud  as 
the  devil ; '  ask  again,  '  whether  on  this  very  account  that 
you  think  yourself  as  proud  as  the  devil,  you  do  not  think 
yourself  to  be  very  humble  '  (iv.  282).  That  is  a  character- 
istic bit  of  subtilising,  and  it  indicates  the  danger  of  all  this 
excessive  introspection.  Edwards  would  not  have  accepted 
the  moral  that  the  best  plan  is  to  think  about  yourself  as 
little  as  possible  ;  for  from  his  point  of  viev'-  this  constant 
cross-examination  of  all  your  feelings,  this  dissection  of 
emotion  down  to  its  finest  and  most  intricate  convolutions, 
was  of  the  very  essence  of  religion.  No  one,  however,  can 
read  his  account  of  his  own  feelings,  even  when  he  runs  into 
the  accustomed  phraseology,  without  perceiving  the  ring  of 
genuine  feeling.  He  is  morbid,  it  may  be,  but  he  is  not 
insincere ;  and  even  his  strained  hyperboles  are  scarcely 
unintelligible  when  considered  as  the  expression  of  the 
sentiment  produced  by  the  effort  of  a  human  being  to  live 
constantly  in  presence  of  the  absolute  and  the  infinite. 

The  event  which  most  powerfully  influenced  Edwards' 
mind  during  his  life  at  Northampton  was  one  of  those 
strange  spiritual  storms  which  then,  as  now,  swept  periodi- 
cally across  the  Churches.     Protestants  generally  call  them 

X  2 


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revivals ;  in  Catholic  countries  they  impel  pilgrims  to  some 
devotional  shrine  ;  Edwards  and  his  contemporaries  de- 
scribed such  a  phenomenon  as  '  a  remarkable  outpouring  of 
God's  Holy  Spirit.'  He  has  carefully  described  the  symp- 
toms of  one  such  commotion,  in  which  he  was  a  main  agent ; 
and  two  or  three  later  treatises,  discussing  some  of  the 
problems  suggested  by  the  scenes  he  witnessed,  testify  to 
the  profoundness  of  the  impression  upon  his  mind.  In  fact, 
as  we  shall  presently  see,  Edwards'  whole  philosophical 
system  was  being  put  to  a  practical  test  by  these  events. 
Was  the  excitement,  as  modern  observers  would  say,  due  to 
a  mere  moral  epidemic,  or  was  it  actually  produced  by  the 
direct  interposition  in  human  affairs  of  the  Almighty  Ruler  ? 
Unhesitatingly  recognising  the  hand  of  the  God  the  very 
thought  of  whom  crushed  him  into  self-annihilation,  Edwards 
is  unconsciously  troubled  by  the  strange  contrast  between 
the  effect  and  the  stupendous  cause  assigned  for  it.  When  the 
angel  of  the  Lord  comes  down  to  trouble  the  waters,  one 
would  expect  rather  to  see  oceans  upheaved  than  a  trifling 
ripple  in  an  insignificant  pond.  There  is  something  almost 
pathetic  in  his  eagerness  to  magnify  the  proportions  of  the 
event.  He  boasts  that  in  six  months  'more  than  three 
hundred  souls  were  savingly  brought  home  to  Christ  in  this 
town '  (iii.  23).  The  town  itself,  it  may  be  observed,  though 
then  one  of  the  most  populous  in  the  country,  was  only  of 
eighty-two  years'  standing,  and  reckoned  about  two  hundred 
families,  the  era  of  Chicagos  not  having  yet  dawned  upon 
the  world.  The  conversion,  however,  of  this  village  ap- 
peared to  some  '  divines  and  others  '  to  herald  the  approach 
of  the  '  conflagration  '  (iii.  59)  ;  and  though  Edwards  dis- 
avows this  rash  conjecture,  he  anticipates  with  some  confi- 
dence the  approach  of  the  millennium.      The  '  isles  and 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  309 

ships  of  Tarshish,'  mentioned  in  Isaiah,  are  plainly  meant 
for  America,  which  is  to  be  '  the  firstfruits  of  that  glorious 
day  '  (iii.  154)  ;  and  he  collects  enough  accounts  of  various 
revivals  of  an  analogous  kind  which  had  taken  place  in 
Salzburg,  Holland,  and  several  of  the  British  Colonies,  to 
justify  the  anticipation  'that  these  universal  commotions 
are  the  forerunners  of  something  exceeding  glorious  ap- 
proaching' (iii,  414).  The  limited  area  of  the  disturbance 
perhaps  raised  less  difficulty  than  the  equivocal  nature  of 
many  of  the  manifestations.  In  Edwards'  imagination, 
Satan  was  always  on  the  watch  to  produce  an  imitation, 
and,  it  would  seem,  a  curiously  accurate  imitation,  of  the 
Divine  impulses.  As  De  Foe  says,  in  a  different  sense — 
'  Wherever  God  erects  a  house  of  prayer, 
The  devil  always  builds  a  chapel  there.' 

And  some  people  were  unkind  enough  to  trace  in  the 
diseases  and  other  questionable  products  of  the  revival  a 
distinct  proof  of  the  'operation  of  the  evil  spirit'  (iii.  96). 
Edwards  felt  the  vital  importance  of  distinguishing  between 
the  two  classes  of  supernatural  agency,  so  different  in  their 
source,  and  yet  so  thoroughly  similar  in  their  effects. 
There  is  something  rather  touching,  though  at  times 
our  sympathy  is  not  quite  unequivocal,  in  the  simplicity 
with  which  he  traces  distinct  proofs  of  the  Divine  hand  in 
the  familiar  phenomena  of  religious  conversions.  The 
stories  seem  stale  and  profitless  to  us  which  he  accepted 
with  awe-stricken  reverence  as  a  demonstrative  testimony  to 
the  Divinity  of  the  work.  He  gives,  for  example,  an  anec- 
dote of  a  young  woman,  who,  being  jealous  of  another  con- 
version, resolved  to  bring  about  her  own  by  the  rather  naif 
expedient  of  reading  the  Bible  straight  through.  Having  be- 
gun her  task  on  Monday,  the  desired  effect  was  produced  on 


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Thursday,  and  she  felt  it  possible  to  skip  at  once  to  the  New 
Testament.  The  crisis  ran  through  its  usual  course,  ending 
in  a  state  of  rapture,  during  which  she  enjoyed  for  days  '  a 
kind  of  beatific  vision  of  God.'  The  poor  girl  was  very  ill, 
and  expressed  'great  longings  to  die.'  When  her  brother 
read  in  Job  about  worms  feeding  on  the  dead  body,  she 
'  appeared  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  said  it  was  sweet  to 
her  to  think  of  her  being  in  such  circumstances '  (iii.  69). 
The  longing  was  speedily  gratified,  and  she  departed,  per- 
haps not  to  find  in  another  world  that  the  universe  had 
been  laid  out  precisely  in  accordance  with  the  theories  of 
Mr.  Jonathan  Edwards,  but  at  least  leaving  behind  her — so 
we  are  assured— memories  of  touching  humility  and  spirit- 
uality. If  Abigail  Hutchinson  strikes  us  as  representing, 
on  the  whole,  rather  a  morbid  type  of  human  excellence, 
what  are  we  to  say  to  Phebe  Bartlet,  who  had  just  passed 
her  fourth  birthday  in  April  1735?  (iii.  7°)-  This  infant  of 
more  than  Yankee  precocity  was  converted  by  her  brother, 
who  had  just  gone  through  the  same  process  at  the  age  of 
eleven.  She  took  to  '  secret  prayer,'  five  or  six  times  a  day, 
and  would  never  suffer  herself  to  be  interrupted.  Her 
experiences  are  given  at  great  length,  including  a  refusal  to 
eat  plums,  '  because  it  was  sin  ; '  her  extreme  interest  in  a 
thought  suggested  to  her  by  a  text  from  the  Revelation, 
about  '  supping  with  God  ; '  and  her  request  to  her  father 
to  replace  a  cow  which  a  poor  man  had  lost.  She  took 
great  delight  in  'private  religious  meetings,'  and  was 
specially  edified  by  the  sermons  of  Mr.  Edwards,  for  whom 
she  professed,  as  he  records,  with  perhaps  some  pardonable 
complacency,  the  warmest  affection.  The  grotesque  side 
of  the  story  of  this  detestable  infant  is,  however,  blended 
with  something  more  shocking.     The  poor  little  wretch  was 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  311 

tormented  by  the  fear  of  hell-fire  ;  and  her  relations  and 
pastor  appear  to  have  done  their  best  to  stimulate  this,  as 
well  as  other  religious  sentiments.  Edwards  boasts  at  a 
subsequent  period  that  'hundreds  of  little  children'  had 
testified  to  the  glory  of  God's  work  (iii.  146).  He  afterwards 
remarks  incidentally  that  many  people  had  considered  as 
'  intolerable '  the  conduct  of  the  ministers  in  '  frightening 
poor  innocent  little  children  with  talk  of  hell-fire  and  eternal 
damnation'  (iii.  200).  And  indeed  we  cannot  deny  that 
when  reading  some  of  the  sermons  to  which  poor  Phebe 
Bartlet  must  have  hstened,  and  remembering  the  nature  of 
the  audience,  the  fingers  of  an  unregenerate  person  clench 
themselves  involuntarily  as  grasping  an  imaginary  horsewhip. 
The  answer  given  by  Edwards  does  not  diminish  the  impres- 
sion. Innocent  as  children  may  seem  to  be,  he  replies, 
'  yet  if  they  are  out  of  Christ,  they  are  not  so  in  God's 
sight,  but  are  young  vipers,  and  are  infinitely  more  hate- 
ful than  vipers,  and  are  in  a  most  miserable  condition 
as  well  as  grown  persons  ;  and  they  are  naturally  very 
senseless  and  stupid,  being  born  as  the  wild  ass's  colt,  and 
need  much  to  awaken  them  '  (iii.  200).  Doubtless  they 
got  it,  and  if  we  will  take  Edwards'  word  for  it,  the  awaken- 
ing process  never  did  harm  in  any  one  instance.  Here  we 
are  touching  the  doctrines  which  naturally  excite  a  fierce 
revolt  of  the  conscience  against  the  most  repulsive  of  all 
theological  dogmas,  though  unfortunately  a  revolt  which  is 
apt  to  generate  an  indiscriminating  hostility. 

The  revival  gradually  spent  its  force  ;  and,  as  usual,  the 
more  unpleasant  symptoms  began  to  assume  greater  promi- 
nence as  the  more  spiritual  impulse  decayed.  In  Edwards' 
phraseology,  '  it  began  to  be  very  sensible  that  the  Spirit  of 
God  was  gradually  withdrawing  from  us,  and  after  this  time 


312  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

Satan  seemed  to  be  set  more  loose,  and  raged  in  a  dread- 
ful manner  '  (iii.  77).  From  the  beginning  of  the  excite- 
ment, the  usual  physical  manifestation,  leapings,  and 
roarings  and  convulsions  (iii.  131,  205),  had  shown  them- 
selves ;  and  Edwards  labours  to  show  that  in  this  case  they 
were  genuine  marks  of  a  Divine  impulse,  and  not  of  mere 
enthusiasm,  as  in  the  externally  similar  cases  of  the  Quakers, 
the  French  prophets,  and  others  (iii.  109).  Now,  however, 
more  startling  phenomena  presented  themselves.  Satan 
persuaded  a  highly  respectable  citizen  to  cut  his  throat. 
Others  saw  visions,  and  had  fancied  inspirations  ;  whilst 
from  some  hints  it  would  seem  probable  that  grosser  out- 
rages on  morality  resulted  from  indiscriminate  gatherings  of 
frenzied  enthusiasts  (iii.  284).  Finally,  people's  minds  were 
diverted  by  the  approach  of  his  Excellency  the  Governor  to 
settle  an  Indian  treaty,  and  the  building  of  a  new  meeting- 
house altered  the  channel  of  enthusiasm  (iii.  79).  North- 
ampton settled  down  into  its  normal  tranquillity. 

Some  years  passed,  and,  as  religious  zeal  cooled, 
Edwards  became  involved  in  characteristic  difficulties. 
The  pastor,  it  may  easily  be  supposed,  was  not  popular  with 
the  rising  generation.  He  had,  as  he  confesses  with  his 
usual  candour,  '  a  constitution  in  many  respects  pecuHarly 
unhappy,  attended  with  flaccid  solids  ;  vapid,  sizy,  and 
scarce  fluids  ;  and  a  low  tide  of  spirits  ;  often  occasioning 
a  kind  of  childish  weakness  and  contemptibleness  of  speech, 
presence  and  demeanour  ;  with  a  disagreeable  dulness  and 
stiffness,  much  unfitting  me  for  conversation,  but  more 
especially  for  the  government  of  a  college,'  which  he  was 
requested  to  undertake  (i.  86).  He  was,  says  his  admiring 
biographer,  '  thorough  in  the  government  of  his  children,' 
who  consequently  'reverenced,  esteemed,  and  loved  him.' 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS 


J' J 


He  adopted  the  plan,  less  popular  now  than  then,  and  even 
more  decayed  in  America  than  in  England,  of  '  thoroughly 
subduing '  his  children  as  soon  as  they  showed  any  tendency 
to  self-will.  He  was  a  '  great  enemy '  to  all  *  vain  amuse- 
ments ; '  and  even  after  his  children  had  grown  up,  he  en- 
foiced  their  abstinence  from  such  'pernicious  practice,'  and 
never  allowed  them  to  be  out  after  nine  at  night.  Any 
gentleman,  we  are  happy  to  add,  was  given  proper  opportu- 
nities for  courting  his  daughters  after  consulting  their  parents, 
but  on  condition  of  conforming  strictly  to  the  family  regula- 
tions (i.  52,  53).  This  Puritan  discipline  appears  to  have 
succeeded  with  Edwards'  own  family  ;  but  a  gentleman  with 
flaccid  solids,  vapid  fluids,  and  a  fervent  belief  in  hell-fire 
is  seldom  appreciated  by  the  youth  even  of  a  Puritan  village. 
Accordingly,  Edwards  got  into  trouble  by  endeavouring 
to  force  his  own  notions  of  discipline  amongst  certain  young 
people,  belonging  to  '  considerable  families,'  who  were  said 
to  indulge  in  loose  conversation  and  equivocal  books. 
They  possibly  preferred  'Pamela,'  which  had  then  just 
revealed  a  new  source  of  amusement  to  the  world,  to 
awakening  sermons  ;  and  Edwards'  well-meant  efforts  to 
suppress  the  evil  set  the  town  '  in  a  blaze '  (i.  64).  A  more 
serious  quarrel  followed.  Edwards  maintained  the  doctrine, 
which  had  been  gradually  dying  out  amongst  the  descen- 
dants of  the  Puritans,  that  converted  persons  alone  should 
be  admitted  to  the  Lord's  Supper.  The  practice  had  been 
different  at  Northampton  ;  and  when  Edwards  announced 
his  intention  of  enforcing  the  test  of  professed  conversion, 
a  vigorous  controversy  ensued.  The  dispute  lasted  for 
some  years,  with  much  mutual  recrimination.  A  kind  of 
ecclesiastical  council,  formed  from  the  neighbouring 
churches,  decided  by  a  majority  of  one  that  he  should  be 


314  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

dismissed  if  his  people  desired  it  ;  and  the  people  voted  for 
his  dismissal  by  a  majority  of  more  than  200  to  20  (i.  69). 

Edwards  was  thus  a  martyr  to  his  severe  sense  of  dis- 
cipline. His  admirers  have  lamented  over  the  sentence  by 
which  the  ablest  of  American  thinkers  was  banished  in  a 
kind  of  disgrace.  Impartial  readers  will  be  inclined  to 
suspect  that  those  who  suffered  under  so  rigorous  a  spiritual 
ruler  had  perhaps  some  reason  on  their  side.  However  that 
may  be,  and  I  do  not  presume  to  have  any  opinion  upon  a 
question  involving  such  complex  ecclesiastical  disputes,  the 
result  to  literature  was  fortunate.  In  1751  Edwards  was 
appointed  to  a  mission  for  Indians,  founded  at  Stockbridge, 
in  the  remotest  corner  of  Massachusetts,  where  a  few 
remnants  of  the  aborigines  were  settled  on  a  township 
granted  by  the  colony.  There  were  great  hopes,  we  are 
told,  of  the  probable  influence  of  the  mission,  which  were 
destined  to  frustration  from  accidental  causes.  The  hopes 
can  hardly  have  rested  on  the  character  of  the  preacher. 
It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  more  grotesque  relation  between 
a  minister  and  his  congregation  than  that  which  must  have 
subsisted  between  Edwards  and  his  barbarous  flock.  He 
had  remarked  pathetically  in  one  of  his  writings  on  the  very 
poor  prospect  open  to  the  Houssatunnuck  Indians,  if  their 
salvation  depended  on  the  study  of  the  evidences  of 
Christianity  (iv.  245).  And  if  Edwards  preached  upon  the 
topics  of  which  his  mind  was  fullest,  their  case  would  have  been 
still  harder.  For  it  was  in  the  remote  solitudes  of  this  retired 
corner  that  he  gave  himself  up  to  those  abstruse  meditations 
on  free-will  and  original  sin  which  form  the  substance  of  his 
chief  writings.  A  sermon  in  the  Houssatunnuck  language, 
if  Edwards  ever  acquired  that  tongue,  upon  predestination, 
the   differences   between  the   Arminian   and  the  Calvinist 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  315 

schemes,  Liberty  of  Indifference,  and  other  such  doctrines, 
would  hardly  he  an  improving  performance.  If,  however, 
his  labours  in  this  department  '  were  attended  with  no 
remarkable  visible  success  '  (i.  83),  he  thought  deeply  and 
wrote  much.  The  publication  of  his  treatise  on  the  Freedom 
of  the  Will  followed  in  1754,  and  upon'the  strength  of  the 
reputation  which  it  won  for  him,  he  was  appointed  President 
of  New  Jersey  College  in  the  end  of  1757,  only  to  die  of 
small-pox  in  the  following  March.  His  death  cut  short 
some  considerable  literary  schemes,  not,  however,  of  a  kind 
calculated  to  add  to  his  reputation.  Various  remains  were 
published  after  his  death,  and  we  have  ample  materials  for 
forming  a  comprehensive  judgment  of  his  theories.  In  one 
shape  or  another  he  succeeded  in  giving  utterance  to  his 
theory  upon  the  great  problems  of  life  ;  and  there  is  little 
cause  for  regret  that  he  did  not  succeed  in  completing  that 
'  History  of  the  Work  of  Redemption '  which  was  to  have 
been  his  opus  niagmini.  He  had  neither  the  knowledge  nor 
the  faculties  for  making  much  of  a  Puritan  view  of  universal 
history,  and  he  has  left  a  sufficient  indication  of  his  general 
conception  of  such  a  book. 

The  book  upon  the  Freedom  of  the  Will,  which  is 
his  main  title  to  philosophical  fame,  bears  marks  of  the 
conditions  under  which  it  was  composed,  and  which 
certainly  did  not  tend  to  confer  upon  an  abstruse  treatise 
any  additional  charm.  Edwards'  style  is  heavy  and  languid  ; 
he  seldom  indulges  in  an  illustration,  and  those  which  he 
gives  are  far  from  lively  ;  it  is  only  at  rare  intervals  that  his 
logical  ingenuity  in  stating  some  intricate  argument  clothes 
his  thought  in  language  of  corresponding  neatness.  He  has, 
in  fact,  the  faults  natural  to  an  isolated  thinker.  He  gives 
his  readers  credit  for  being  familiar  with  the  details  of  the 


3i6  HOURS   IN  A   LIBRARY 

labyrinth  in  which  he  had  wandered  till  every  intricacy  was 
plainly  mapped  out  in  his  own  mind,  and  frequently  dwells  at 
tiresome  length  upon  some  refinement  which  probably  never 
occurred  to  anyone  but  himself.  A  writer  who,  like  Hume, 
is  at  once  an  acute  thinker  and  a  great  literary  artist,  is 
content  to  aim  a  decisive  blow  at  the  vital  points  of  the 
theory  which  he  is  opposing,  and  leaves  to  his  readers 
the  task  of  following  out  more  remote  consequences  ; 
Edwards,  after  winning  the  decisive  victory,  insists 
upon  attacking  his  adversary  in  every  position  in  which  he 
might  conceivably  endeavour  to  entrench  himself.  It  seems 
to  be  his  aim  to  answer  every  objection  which  could  possibly 
be  suggested,  and,  of  course,  he  answers  many  objections 
which  no  one  would  raise,  whilst  probably  omitting  others 
of  which  no  forethought  could  warn  him.  The  book  reads 
like  a  verbatim  report  of  those  elaborate  dialogues  which 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  holding  with  himself  in  his  solitary 
ramblings.  There  is  some  truth  in  Goldsmith's  remark 
upon  the  ease  of  gaining  an  argumentative  victory  when 
you  are  at  once  opponent  and  respondent.  It  must  be 
added,  however,  that  any  man  who  is  at  all  fond  of  specu- 
lation finds  in  his  second  self  the  most  obstinate  and 
perplexing  of  antagonists.  No  one  else  raises  such  a 
variety  of  empty  and  vexatious  quibbles,  and  splits  hairs 
with  such  surprising  versatility.  It  is  true  that  your  double 
often  shows  a  certain  discretion,  and  whilst  obstinately 
defending  certain  untenable  positions  contrives  to  glide  over 
some  weak  places,  which  come  to  light  with  provoking  un- 
expectedness when  you  are  encountered  by  an  external 
enemy.  Edwards,  indeed,  guards  himself  with  extreme  care 
by  an  elaborate  system  of  logical  divisions  and  subdivisions 
against  the  possibility  of  so  unpleasant  a  surprise  ;  but  no 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  317 

man  can  dispense  with  the  aid  of  a  living  antagonist,  free 
from  all  suspicion  of  being  a  man  of  straw.  The  opponents 
against  whom  he  labours  most  strenuously  were  unfortunately 
very  feeble  creatures  for  the  most  part  ;  such  as  poor 
Chubb,  the  Deist,  and  the  once  well-known  Dr.  Whitby, 
who  had  changed  sides  in  more  than  one  controversy  with 
more  credit  to  his  candour  than  to  his  force  of  mind. 
Certain  difficulties  may,  therefore,  have  evaded  the  logical 
network  in  which  he  tried  to  enclose  them  ;  but,  on  the 
whole,  he  is  rather  over  than  under  anxious  to  stop  every 
conceivable  loophole.  Condensation,  with  a  view  to 
placing  the  vital  points  of  his  doctrine  in  more  salient  relief, 
would  have  greatly  improved  his  treatise.  But  the  fault  is 
natural  in  a  philosophical  recluse,  more  intent  upon 
thorough  investigation  than  upon  lucid  exposition. 

Without  following  his  intricate  reasonings,  the  main 
position  may  be  indicated  in  a  few  words.  The  doctrine,  in 
fact,  which  Edwards  asserted  may  be  said  to  be  simply  that 
everything  has  a  cause,  and  that  human  volitions  are  no 
more  an  exception  to  this  universal  law  than  any  other  class 
of  phenomena.  This  belief  in  the  universality  of  causation 
rests  with  him  upon  a  primary  intuition  (v.  55),  and  not 
upon  experience ;  and  his  whole  argument  pursues  the 
metaphysical  method  instead  of  appealing,  as  a  modern 
school  would  appeal,  to  the  results  of  observation.  The 
Arminian  opponent  of  necessity  must,  as  he  argues,  either 
deny  this  self-evident  principle,  or  be  confined  to  statements 
purely  irrelevant  to  the  really  important  question.  The 
book  is  occupied  in  hunting  down  all  the  evasions  by  which 
these  conclusions  may  be  escaped,  and  in  showing  that  the 
true  theory,  when  rightly  understood,  is  obnoxious  to  no 
objections  on  the  score  of  morality.     The  ordinary  mode  of 


3i8  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

meeting  the  argument  is  by  appealing  to  consciousness. 
We  know  that  we  are  free,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said,  and  there's 
an  end  on't.  Edwards  argues  at  great  length,  and  in  many 
forms,  that  this  summary  reply  involves  a  confusion  between 
the  two  very  different  propositions  :  '  We  can  do  what  we 
will,'  and  '  We  can  will  what  we  will.'  Consciousness 
really  testifies  that,  if  we  desire  to  raise  our  right  hand,  our 
right  hand  will  rise  in  the  absence  of  external  compulsion. 
It  does  not  show  that  the  desire  itself  may  either  exist  or 
not  exist,  independently  of  any  preceding  causes  either 
external  or  internal.  The  ordinary  definition  of  free-will 
assumes  an  infinite  series  of  volitions,  each  determining  all 
that  has  gone  before  ;  or,  to.  let  Edwards  speak  for  himself, 
and  it  will  be  a  sufficient  specimen  of  his  style,  he  says  in 
a  passage  which  sums  up  the  whole  argument,  that  the 
assertion  of  free-will  either  amounts  to  the  merely  verbal 
proposition  that  you  have  power  to  will  what  you  have 
power  to  will  ;  '  or  the  meaning  must  be  that  a  man  has 
power  to  will  as  he  pleases  or  chooses  to  will  ;  that  is,  he 
has  power  by  one  act  of  choice  to  choose  another  ;  by  an 
antecedent  act  of  will  to  choose  a  consequent  act,  and 
therein  to  execute  his  own  choice.  And  if  this  be  their 
meaning,  it  is  nothing  but  shuffling  with  those  they  dispute 
with,  and  baffling  their  own  reason.  For  still  the  question 
returns,  wherein  lies  man's  liberty  in  that  antecedent  act  of 
will  which  chose  the  consequent  act  ?  The  answer,  accord- 
ing to  the  same  principle,  must  be,  that  his  liberty  lies  also 
in  his  willing  as  he  would,  or  as  he  chose,  or  agreeably  to 
another  act  of  choice  preceding  that.  And  so  the  question 
returns  in  infinitum  and  again  in  infinitum.  In  order  to 
support  their  opinion  there  must  be  no  beginning,  but  free 
acts  of  the  will  must  have  been  chosen  by  foregoing  acts  of 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  319 

will  in  the  soul  of  every  man   without   beginning,   and  so 
before  he  had  a  beginning.' 

The  heads  of  most  people  begin  to  swim  when  they  have 
proceeded  but  a  short  way  into  such  argumentation  ;  but 
Edwards  delights  in  aj^plying  similar  logical  puzzles  over  and 
over  again  to  confute  the  notions  of  a  'self-determining 
power  in  the  will,'  or  of  a  '  liberty  of  indifferency  ; '  of  the 
power  of  suspending  the  action  even  if  the  judgment  has 
pronounced  its  verdict ;  of  Archbishop  King's  ingenious 
device  of  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse,  and  declaring 
that  our  delight  is  not  the  cause  but  the  consequence  of  our 
will ;  or  Clarke's  theory  of  liberty,  as  consisting  in  agency 
which  seems  to  erect  an  infinite  number  of  subsidiary  first 
causes  in  the  wills  of  all  created  beings.  A  short  cut  to  the 
same  conclusions  consists  in  smiply  denying  the  objective 
reality  of  chance  or  contingency  ;  but  Edwards  has  no  love 
of  short  cuts  in  such  matters,  or  rather  cannot  refuse  himself 
the  pleasure  of  following  the  circuitous  route  as  well  as 
explaining  the  more  direct  method. 

This  main  principle  established,  Edwards  has,  of  course, 
no  difficulty  in  showing  that  the  supposed  injury  to  morality 
rests  on  a  misconception  of  the  real  doctrine.  If  volitions, 
instead  of  being  caused,  are  the  products  of  arbitrary  chance, 
morality  becomes  meaningless.  We  approve  or  disapprove 
of  an  action  precisely  because  it  implies  the  existence  of 
motives,  good  or  bad.  Punishment  and  reward  would  be 
useless  if  actions  were  after  all  a  matter  of  chance  ;  and  if 
merit  implied  the  existence  of  free-will,  the  formation  of 
virtuous  habits  would  detract  from  a  man's  merit  in  so  far 
as  they  tend  to  make  virtue  necessary.  So  far,  in  short,  as 
you  admit  the  existence  of  an  element  of  pure  chance,  you 
restrict  the  sphere  of  law  ;  and  therefore  morality,  so  far 


320  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

from  excluding,  necessarily  involves  an  invariable  connection 
between  motives  and  actions. 

Arguments  of  this  kind,  sufficiently  familiar  to  all  students 
of  the  subject,  are  combined  with  others  of  a  more  doubtful 
character.  Edwards  has  no  hesitation  about  dealing  with 
the  absolute  and  the  infinite.  He  dwells,  for  example,  with 
great  ingenuity  upon  the  difficulty  of  reconciling  the  Divine 
prescience  with  the  contingency  of  human  actions,  and  has 
no  scruple  in  inferring  the  possibility  of  reconciling  virtue 
with  necessity  from  the  fact  that  God  is  at  once  the  type  of 
all  perfection,  and  is  under  a  necessity  to  be  perfect.  If 
such  arguments  would  be  rejected  as  transcending  the  limits 
of  human  intelligence  by  many  who  agree  with  his  con- 
clusions, others,  equally  characteristic,  are  as  much  below 
the  dignity  of  a  metaphysician.  Edwards  draws  his  proofs 
with  the  same  equanimity  from  the  most  abstruse  specula- 
tions as  from  a  child-like  belief  in  the  literal  inspiration  of 
the  Scriptures.  He  '  proves,'  for  example,  God's  foreknow- 
ledge of  human  actions  from  such  facts  as  Micaiah's 
prophecy  of  Ahab's  sin,  and  Daniel's  acquaintance  with  the 
'  horrid  wickedness  '  about  to  be  committed  by  Antiochus 
Epiphanes.  It  is  a  pleasant  supposition  that  a  man  who 
did  not  believe  that  God  could  foretell  events,  would  be 
awed  by  the  authority  of  a  text ;  but  Edwards'  polemic  is 
almost  exclusively  directed  against  the  hated  Arminians,  and 
he  appears  to  be  unconscious  of  the  existence  of  a  genuine 
sceptic.  He  observes  that  he  has  never  read  Hobbes  (v. 
260)  ;  and  though  in  another  work  he  makes  a  brief  allusion 
to  Hume,  he  never  refers  to  him  in  these  speculations,  whilst 
covering  the  same  ground  as  one  of  the  admirable  Essays. 

This  simplicity  is  significant  of  Edwards'  unique  posi- 
tion.    The  doctrine  of  Calvinism,  by  whatever  name  it  may 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  32 r 

be  called,  is  a  mental  ionic  of  tremendous  potency. 
Whether  in  its  theological  dress,  as  attributing  all  events  to 
the  absolute  decrees  of  the  Almighty,  or  in  its  metaphysical 
dress,  as  declaring  that  some  abstract  necessity  governs  the 
world,  or  in  the  shape  more  familiar  to  modern  thinkers,  in 
which  it  proclaims  the  universality  of  what  has  been  called 
the  reign  of  law,  it  conquers  or  revolts  the  imagination.  It 
forces  us  to  conceive  of  all  phenomena  as  so  many  links 

In  the  eternal  chain 
Which  none  can  break,  nor  slip,  nor  overreach  ; 

and  can,  therefore,  be  accepted  only  by  men  who  possess 
the  rare  power  of  combining  their  beliefs  into  a  logical 
whole.  Most  people  contrive  to  shirk  the  consequences, 
either  by  some  of  those  evasions  which,  as  Edwards  showed, 
amount  to  asserting  the  objective  existence  of  chance,  or 
more  commonly  by  forbidding  their  reason  to  follow  the 
chain  of  inferences  through  more  than  a  few  links.  The 
axiom  that  the  cause  of  a  cause  is  also  the  cause  of  the  thing 
caused,  though  verbally  admitted,  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
most  intellects.  People  are  willing  to  admit  that  A  is  irre- 
vocably joined  to  B,  B  to  C,  and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the 
alphabet,  but  they  refuse  to  realise  the  connection  between 
A  and  Z.  The  annoyance  excited  by  Mr.  Buckle's  enun- 
ciation of  some  very  familiar  propositions,  is  a  measure  of 
the  reluctance  of  the  popular  imagination  to  accept  a  logical 
conclusion.  When  the  dogma  is  associated  with  a  belief  in 
eternal  damnation,  the  consequences  are  indeed  terrible  ; 
and  therefore  it  was  natural  that  Calvinism  should  have 
become  an  almost  extinct  creed,  and  the  dogma  have  been 
left  to  the  freethinkers  who  had  not  that  awful  vision  before 
their  eyes.  Hobbes,  Collins,  and  Hume,  the  three  writers 
with  whom  the  opinion  was  chiefly  associated  in  English 

VOL.   I.  Y 


322  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

literature,  were  also  the  three  men  who  were  regarded  as 
most  emphatically  the  devil's  advocates.  In  the  latter  part 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  it  was  indeed  adopted  by  Hartley, 
by  his  disciple  Priestley,  and  by  Abraham  Tucker,  all  of 
whom  were  Christians  after  a  fashion.  But  they  recon- 
ciled themselves  to  the  belief  by  peculiar  forms  of  optimism. 
Tucker  maintained  the  odd  fancy  that  every  man  would 
ultimately  receive  a  precisely  equal  share  of  happiness,  and 
thought  that  a  few  thousand  years  of  damnation  would  be 
enough  for  all  practical  purposes.  If  I  remember  rightly, 
he  roughly  calculated  the  amount  of  misery  to  be  endured 
by  human  beings  at  about  two  minutes'  suffering  in  a  cen- 
tury. Hartley  maintained  the  still  more  remarkable  thesis 
that,  in  some  non-natural  sense,  '  all  individuals  are  always 
and  actually  infinitely  happy.'  But  Edwards,  though  an 
optimist  in  a  very  different  sense,  was  alone  amongst  con- 
temporary writers  of  any  speculative  power  in  asserting  at 
once  the  doctrine  that  all  events  are  the  result  of  the 
Divine  will,  and  the  doctrine  of  eternal  damnation.  Hismind, 
acute  as  it  was,  j  et  worked  entirely  in  the  groove  provided 
for  it.  The  revolting  consequences  to  which  he  was  led  by 
not  running  away  from  his  premisses,  never  for  an  instant 
suggested  to  him  that  the  premisses  might  conceivably  be 
false.  He  accepts  a  belief  in  hell-fire,  interpreted  after  the 
popular  fashion,  without  a  murmur,  and  deduces  from  it  all 
those  consequences  which  most  theologians  have  evaded  or 
covered  with  a  judicious  veil. 

Edwards  was  luckily  not  an  eloquent  man,  for  his  sermons 
would  in  that  case  have  been  amongst  the  most  terrible  of 
human  compositions.  But  if  ever  he  warms  into  something 
like  eloquence,  it  is  when  he  is  endeavouring  to  force  upon 
the  imaginations  of  his  hearers  the  horrors  of  their  position. 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  323 

Perhaps  the  best  specimen  of  his  powers  in  this  department 
is  a  sermon  which  we  are  told  produced  a  great  effect  at  the 
time  of  revivals,  and  to  which,  we  may  as  well  remember, 
Phebe  Bartlct  may  probably  have  listened.  Read  that 
sermon  (vol.  vii.,  sermon  xv.),  and  endeavour  to  picture 
the  scene  of  its  original  delivery.  Imagine  the  congregation 
of  rigid  Calvinists,  prepared  by  previous  scenes  of  frenzy 
and  convulsion,  and  longing  for  the  fierce  excitement  which 
was  the  only  break  in  the  monotony  of  their  laborious  lives. 
And  then  imagine  Edwards  ascending  the  pulpit,  with  his 
flaccid  solids  and  vapid  fluids,  and  the  pale  drawn  face, 
in  which  we  can  trace  an  equal  resemblance  to  the  stern 
Puritan  forefathers  and  to  the  keen  sallow  New  Englander  of 
modern  times.  He  gives  out  as  his  text,  '  Sinners  shall 
slide  in  due  time,'  and  the  title  of  his  sermon  is,  '  Sinners  in 
the  Hands  of  an  Angry  God.'  For  a  full  hour  he  dwells 
with  unusual  vehemence  on  the  wrath  of  the  Creator  and 
the  sufferings  of  the  creature.  His  sentences,  generally 
languid  and  complex,  condense  themselves  into  short, 
almost  gasping  asseverations.  God  is  angry  with  the  wicked  ; 
as  angry  with  the  living  wicked  as  '  with  many  of  those 
miserable  creatures  that  He  is  now  tormenting  in  hell.' 
The  devil  is  waiting  :  the  fire  is  ready  ;  the  furnace  is  hot ; 
the  '  glittering  sword  is  whet  and  held  over  them,  and  the 
pit  hath  opened  her  mouth  to  receive  them.'  The  uncon- 
verted are  walking  on  a  rotten  covering,  where  there  are 
innumerable  weak  places,  and  those  places  not  distinguish- 
able. The  flames  are  '  gathering  and  lashing  about '  the 
sinner,  and  all  that  preserves  him  for  a  moment  is  '  the  mere 
arbitrary  will  and  uncovenanted  unobliged  forbearance  of 
an  incensed  God.'  But  does  not  God  love  sinners  ?  Hardly 
in  a  comforting  sense.     '  The  God  that  holds  you  over  the 

Y  2 


324  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

pit  of  hell,  much  as  one  holds  a  spider  or  some  other  loath 
some  insect  over  the  fire,  abhors  you,  and  is  dreadfully  pro- 
voked \    He  looks  upon  you  as  worthy  of  nothing  else  but 
to  be  cast  into  the  fire ;  .  .  .  you  are  ten  thousand  times  as 
abominable  in   His  eyes  as  the  most  hateful  and  venomous 
serpent  is  in  ours.'     The  comparison  of  man  to  a  loathsome 
viper  is  one  of  the  metaphors  to  which  Edwards  most  habitu- 
ally   recurs    (e.g.    vii.   167,   179,   182,   198,  344,  496).     No 
relief  is  possible  ;  Edwards  will  have  no  attempt  to  explain 
away  the  eternity  of  which  he  speaks;   there  will  be  no  end 
to  the  'exquisite  horrible  misery'  of   the  damned.     You, 
when  damned,  '  will  know  certainly  that  you  must  wear  out 
long  ages,  millions  of  millions  of  ages,  in  wrestling   and 
conflicting  with   this  Almighty  merciless  vengeance  :    and 
then  when  you  have  so  done,  when  so  many  ages  have  actu- 
ally been  spent  by  you  in  this  manner,  you  will  know  that 
all  is  but  a  point  to  what  remains.'     Nor  might  his  hearers 
fancy  that,  as  respectable  New  England  Puritans,  they  had 
no  personal  interest  in  the  question.     It  would  be  awful,  he 
says,  if  we  could  point  to  one  definite  person  in   this  con- 
gregation as  certain  to  endure  such  torments.     '  But,  alas  ! 
instead  of  one,  how  many  is  it  likely  will  remember  this  dis- 
course in  hell  ?     It  would  be  a  wonder  if  some  that  are  now 
present  should  not  be  in  hell  in  a  very  short  time,  before  this 
year  is  out.    And  it  would  be  no  wonder  if  some  persons  that 
now  sit  here  in  some  seats  of  this  meeting-house  in  health,  and 
quiet  and  secure,  should  be  there  before  to-morrow  morning.' 
With  which  blessing  he  dismissed  the  congregation  to 
their  dinners,  with  such  appetites  as  might  be  left  to  them. 
The  strained  excitement  which  marks  this  pleasing  produc- 
tion could  not  be  maintained  ;  but  Edwards  never  shrank 
in  cold  blood  from  the  most  appalling  consequences  of  his 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  325 

theories.     He  tells   us,   with  superlative  coolness,  that  the 
'bulk  of  mankind    do    throng'    to    hell    (vii.    226).       He 
sentences    infants    to    hell    remorselessly.      The    imagina- 
tion,   he    admits,   may  be  relieved  by  the  hypothesis  that 
infants  suffer  only  in  this  world,  instead  of   being  doomed 
to   eternal    misery.      '  But  it  does  not  at  all  relieve  one's 
reason  ; '  and  that  is  the  only  faculty  which   he  will  obey 
(vi.  461).      Historically  the  doctrine  is  supported  by  the 
remark    that    God    did    not    save  the  children  in  Sodom, 
and  that   He  actually  commanded    the    slaughter   of    the 
Midianitish   infants.      '  Happy  shall  he  be,'  it  is  written  of 
Edom,   'that  taketh  and  dasheth    thy    little    ones    against 
the  stones'  (vi.  255).      Philosophically  he  remarks  that  'a 
young  viper  has  a  malignant  nature,   though  incapable  of 
doing    a    malignant   action'    (vi.    471),    and    quotes    with 
approval  the  statement  of  a  Jewish  Rabbi,  that  a  child  is 
wicked    as    soon   as    born,  'for  at  the  same  time  that  he 
sucks  the  breasts  he  follows  his  lust '  (vi.  4S2),    which    is 
perhaps    the   superlative  expression  of   the  theory  that  all 
natural  instincts  are  corrupt.     P'inally,  he  enforces  the  only 
doctrine  which  can  equal  this  in  horror,  namely,  that  the 
saints   rejoice    in    the   damnation    of    the    wicked.     In   a 
sermon    called    '  Wicked  Men  useful  in  their  Destruction 
only '  (vol.  viii.,  sermon  xxi.),  he  declares  that  '  the  view 
of  the  doleful  condition  of  the  damned  will  make  them  (the 
saints  in  heaven)  more  prize  their  own  blessedness.'     They 
will  realise  the  wonderful  grace  of  God,  who  has  made  so 
great  a  difference  between  them  and  others  of    the  same 
species,   '  who  are  no  worse  by  nature  than  they,  and  have 
deserved  no  worse  of  God  than  they.'     'When  they  shall 
look  upon  the  damned,'  he  exclaims,  'and  see  their  misery, 
how  will  heaven  ring  with  the  praises    of    God's   justice 


326  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

towards  the  wicked,  and  His  grace  towards  the  saints  !  And 
with  how  much  greater  enlargement  of  heart  will  they  praise 
Jesus  Christ  their  Redeemer,  that  ever  He  was  pleased  to 
set  His  love  upon  them,  His  dying  love  ! ' 

Was  the  man  who  could  utter  such  blasphemous  senti- 
ments— for  so  they  undoubtedly  appear  to  us  — a  being  of 
ordinary  flesh  and  blood?     One  would  rather   have    sup- 
posed his  solids  to  be  of  bronze,  and  his  fluids  of  vitriol,  than 
have  attributed  to  them  the  character  which   he  describes. 
That  he  should  have  been  a  gentle,   meditative  creature, 
around    whose    knees    had    clung    eleven    '  young    vipers ' 
of  his   own    begetting,    is  certainly  an  astonishing  reflec- 
tion.    And  yet,  to  do  Edwards  justice,  we  must  remember 
two  things.     In  the  first  place,  the  responsibility  for  such 
ghastly    beliefs    cannot    be    repudiated    by    anyone    who 
believes  in  the  torments  of  hell.     Catholics  and  Protestants 
must  share  the  opprobrium  due  to  the  assertion  of  this  tre- 
mendous doctrine.     Nor  does  Arminianism  really  provide 
more    than    a    merely    verbal  escape    from    the    difficulty. 
Jeremy  Taylor,  for  example,  draws  a  picture  of  hell  quite  as 
fearful  and  as  material  as  Edwards',  and,  if  animated  by  a 
less  fanatical  spirit,  adorned  by  an  incomparably  more  vivid 
fancy.    He  specially  improves  upon  Edwards'  description  by 
introducing  the  sense  of  smell.    The  tyrant  who  fastened  the 
dead  to  the  living  invented  an  exquisite  torment ;     '  but 
what   is   this    in    respect  of   hell,  when  each  body  of  the 
damned  is  more  loathsome  and  unsavoury  than  a  million 
of  dead  dogs,  and  all  those  pressed  and  crowded  together 
in    so    strait   a   compass?     Bonaventure  goes  so  far  as  to 
say  that  if  one  only  of  the  damned  were  brought  into  this 
world,  it  were  sufficient  to  infect  the  whole  earth.     Neither 
shall  the  devils  send  forth  a  better   smell  ;   for,    although 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  327 

they  are  spirits,  yet  those  fiery  bodies  unto  which  they  are 
fastened  and  confined  shall  be  of  a  more  pestilential  flavour.' 
It  is  vain  to  attempt  an  extenuation  of  the  horror,  by 
relieving  the  Almighty  from  the  responsibility  of  this 
fearful  prison-house.  The  dogma  of  free  will  is  a  trans- 
parent mockery.  It  simply  enables  the  believer  to  retain 
the  hideous  side  of  his  creed  by  abandoning  the  rational 
side.  To  pass  over  the  objection  that  by  admitting  the 
existence  of  chance  it  really  destroys  all  intelligible 
measures  of  merit  and  of  justice,  the  really  awful  dogma 
remains.  You  still  believe  that  God  has  made  man  too 
weak  to  stand  alone,  that  He  has  placed  him  amidst  temp- 
tations where  his  fall,  if  not  rigidly  certain  in  a  given  case, 
is  still  inevitable  for  the  mass,  and  then  torments  him 
eternally  for  his  wickedness.  Whether  a  man  is  slain  out- 
right, or  merely  placed  without  help  to  wander  at  random 
through  innumerable  pitfalls,  makes  no  real  difference  in 
the  character  of  the  action.  Theologians  profess  horror 
at  the  doctrine  of  infantile  damnation,  though  they 
cannot  always  make  up  their  minds  to  disavow  it  explicitly, 
but  they  will  find  it  easier*  to  condemn  the  doctrine 
than  effectually  to  repudiate  all  responsibility.  To  the 
statement  that  it  follows  logically  from  the  dogma  of 
original  sin,  they  reply  that  logic  is  out  of  place  in  such 
questions.  But,  if  this  be  granted,  do  they  not  maintain 
doctrines  as  hideous,  when  calmly  examined  ?  It  is 
blasphemous,  we  are  told,  to  say  with  Edwards,  that  God 
holds  the  '  little  vipers,'  whom  we  call  '  helpless  innocents,' 
suspended  over  the  pit  of  hell,  and  drops  millions  of  them 
into  ruthless  torments.  Certainly  it  is  blasphemous.  But 
is  an  infant  really  more  helpless  than  the  poor  savage  of 
Australia    or    St.  Giles,  surrounded    from  his    birth    with 


328  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

cruel  and  brutal  natures,  and  never  catching  one  glimpse  of 
celestial  light  ?  Nay,  when  the  question  is  between  God 
and  man,  does  not  the  difference  between  the  infant  and 
the  philosopher  or  the  statesman  vanish  into  nothing?  All, 
whatever  figment  of  free-will  may  be  set  up,  are  equally 
helpless  in  face  of  the  surrounding  influences  which  mould 
their  characters  and  their  fate.  Young  children,  the 
heterodox  declare,  are  innocent.  But  the  theologian  replies 
with  unanswerable  truth,  that  God  looks  at  the  heart  and 
not  at  the  actions,  and  that  science  and  theology  are  at 
one  in  declaring  that  in  the  child  are  the  germs  of  the  adult 
man.  If  human  nature  is  corrupt  and  therefore  hateful  to 
God,  Edwards  is  quite  right  in  declaring  that  the  bursting 
bud  must  be  as  hateful  as  the  full-grown  tree.  To  beings 
of  a  loftier  order,  to  say  nothing  of  a  Being  of  infinite 
power  and  wisdom;  the  petty  race  of  man  would  appear  as 
helpless  as  insects  appear  to  us,  and  the  distinction  between 
the  children  or  the  ignorant,  and  the  wise  and  full-grown, 
an  irrelevant  refinement. 

It  is  of  course  true  that  the  patient  reception  of  this  and 
similar  doctrines  would  indicate  at  the  present  day  a  callous 
heart  or  a  perverted  intellect.  Though,  in  the  sphere  of 
abstract  speculation,  we  cannot  draw  any  satisfactory  line 
between  the  man  and  the  infant,  there  is  a  wide  gap  to  the 
practical  imagination,  h.  man  ought  to  be  shocked  when 
confronted  with  this  fearfully  concrete  corollary  to  his 
theories.  But  the  blame  should  be  given  where  it  is  due. 
The  Calvinist  is  not  to  blame  for  the  theory  of  universal  law 
which  he  shares  with  the  philosopher,  but  for  the  theory 
of  damnation  which  he  shares  with  the  Arminian.  The 
hideous  dogma  is  the  existence  of  the  prison-house,  not  the 
belief  that  its  inmates  are  sent  there  by  God's  inscrutable 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  329 

decree,  instead  of  being  drafted  into  it  by  lot.     And  here 
we   come  to  the  second  fact  which  must  be  remembered 
in   Edwards'    favour.     The  hving  truths  in  his  theory  are 
chained  to  dead  fancies,  and  the  fancies  have  an  odour  as 
repulsive  as  Taylor's  'million  of  dead  dogs.'     But  on  the 
truths    is    founded   a    religious  and    moral  system    which, 
however  erroneous  it  may  appear  to  some  thinkers,  is  con- 
spicuous   for    its    vigour    and    loftiness.     Edwards    often 
shows  himself  a  worthy  successor  of  the  great  men  who  led 
the  moral  revolt  of  the  Reformation.     Amongst  some  very 
questionable  metaphysics  and   much   outworn  -sometimes 
repulsive — superstition,    he   grasps    the   central   truths    on 
which  all  really  noble  morality  must  be  based.     The  mode 
in  which  they  presented  themselves  to  his  mind  may  be  easily 
traced.     Calvinism,    logically    developed,    leads    to    Pan- 
theism.    The  absolute  sovereignty  of  God,  the  doctrine  to 
which  Edwards  constantly  returns,  must  be  extended  over 
all  nature  as  well  as  over  the  fate  of  the  individual  human 
soul.     The  peculiarity  of  Edwards'  mind  was,  that  the  doc- 
trine had  thus  expanded  along  particular  lines  of  thought, 
without  equally  affecting  others.     He  is  a  kind  of  Spinoza- 
Mather  ;  he  combines,  that  is,  the  logical  keenness  of  the 
great   metaphysician  with  the  puerile  superstitions   of  the 
New  England  divine  ;  he  sees  God  in  all  nature,  and  yet 
believes   in    the   degrading   supernaturalism    of  the  Salem 
witches.     The  object  of  his  faith,  in  short,  is  the  '  infinite 
Jehovah'  (vi.   170),  the  God  to  whose  all-pervading  power 
none  can  set  a  limit,  and  who  is  yet  the  tutelary  deity  of 
a  petty  clan  ;  and  there  is  something  almost  bewildering  in 
the  facility  with  which  he  passes  from  one  conception  to  the 
other  without  the  smallest   consciousness   of  any   discon- 
tinuity.    Of  his   coincidence  in  the  popular  theories,  and 


330  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

especially  in  the  doctrine  of  damnation,  I  have  already  given 
instances.     His  utterances  derived  from  a  loftier  source  are 
given  with  equal  emphasis.     At  the  age  of  fifteen  or  sixteen 
he  had  said  '  God  and  real  existence  are  the  same  ;  God  is, 
and  there  is  none  else.' '     The  same  doctrine  is  the  founda- 
tion of  the  theories  expounded  in  his  treatises  on  Virtue 
and  on  the  End  of  God  in  Creation.     In  the  last  of  these, 
for  example,  he  uses  the  argument  (depending  upon  a  con- 
ception familiar  to  the  metaphysicians  of  the  previous  age), 
that  benevolence,  consisting  in  regard  to  '  Being  in  general,' 
must  be  due  to  any  being  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of 
existence  (ii.  401).     Now  'all  other  being  is  as  nothing  in 
comparison  of  the  Divine  Being.'     God  is  '  the  foundation 
and  fountain  of  all  being  and  all  perfection,  from  whom  all 
is  perfectly  derived,  and  on  whom  all  is  most  absolutely  and 
perfectly  dependent  ;  whose  being  and  beauty  is,  as  it  were, 
the  sum  and  comprehension  of  all  existence  and  excellence, 
much  more  than  the  sun  is  the  fountain  and  summary  com- 
prehension of  all  the  light  and  brightness  of  the  day  '  (ii.  405). 
As  he  says  in  the  companion  treatise,  '  the  eternal  and  infi- 
nite Being  is,  in  effect,  being  in  general  and  comprehends 
universal  existence  '  (vi.  59).     The  only  end  worthy  of  God 
must,  therefore,  be  His  own  glory.     This  is  not  to  attribute 
selfishness  to  God,  for  '  in  God,  the  love  of  Himself  and 
the  love  of  the  public  are  not  to  be  distinguished  as  in  man, 
because  God's  being,  as  it  were,  comprehends  all '  (vi.  53), 
In  communicating  His  fulness  to  His  creatures.  He  is  of 
necessity  the  ultimate  end  ;  but  it  is  a  fallacy  to  make  God 
and  the  creature  in  this  affair  of  the  emanation  of  the  Divine 

'  See  an  interesting  article  in  the  '  American  Cyclopedia,'  which 
has,  however,  this  odd  peculiarity,  that  it  never  mentions  hell  in  dis- 
cussing the  theories  of  ICdvvards. 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  331 

fulness,  '  the  opposite  parts  of  a  disjunction  '  (vi.  55).  The 
creature's  love  of  God  and  complacence  in  the  Divine  per- 
fections are  the  same  thing  as  the  manifestation  of  the 
Divine  glory.  '  They  are  all  but  the  emanations  of  God's 
glory,  or  the  excellent  brightness  and  fulness  of  the  Divinity 
diffused,  overflowing,  and,  as  it  were,  enlarged  ;  or,  in  one 
word,  existing  ad  extra  '  (vi.  117).  In  more  familiar  dialect, 
our  love  to  God  is  but  God's  goodness  making  itself  objec- 
tive. The  only  knowledge  which  deserves  the  name  is  the 
knowledge  of  God,  and  virtue  is  but  the  knowledge  of  God 
under  a  different  name. 

Without  dwelling  upon  the  relations  of  this  doctrine  to 
modern  forms  of  Pantheism,  I  must  consider  this  last  pro- 
position, which  is  of  vital  importance  in  Edwards'  system, 
and  of  which  the  theological  and  the  metaphysical  element 
is  curiously  blended.  God  is  to  the  universe— to  use 
Edwards'  own  metaphor — what  the  sun  is  to  our  planet ; 
and  the  metaphor  would  have  been  more  adequate  if  he  had 
been  acquainted  with  modern  science.  The  sun's  action 
is  the  primary  cause  of  all  the  infinitely  complex  play  offerees 
which  manifest  themselves  in  the  tall  of  a  raindrop  or  in  the 
operations  of  a  human  brain.  But  as  some  bodies  may 
seem  to  resist  the  action  of  the  sun's  rays,  so  may  some 
created  beings  set  themselves  in  opposition  to  the  Divine 
Will.  To  a  thoroughgoing  Pantheist,  indeed,  such  an 
opposition  must  appear  to  be  impossible  if  we  look  deep 
enough,  and  sin,  in  this  sense,  be  merely  an  illusion,  caused 
by  our  incapacity  of  taking  in  the  whole  design  of  the 
Almighty.  Edwards,  however,  though  dimly  aware  of  the 
difficulty,  is  not  so  consistent  in  his  Pantheism  as  to  be 
much  troubled  with  it.  He  admits  that,  by  some  mysterious 
process,    corruption    has    intruded   itself    into   the   Divine 


332  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

universe.  The  all-pervading  harmony  is  marred  by  a  discord 
due,  in  his  phraseology,  to  the  fall  of  man.  Over  the 
ultimate  cause  of  this  discord  lies  a  veil  which  can  never  be 
withdrawn  to  mortal  intelligence.  Assuming  its  existence, 
however,  virtue  consists,  if  one  may  so  speak,  in  that  quality 
which  fits  a  man  to  be  a  conducting  medium,  and  vice  in 
that  which  makes  him  a  non-conducting  medium  to  the 
solar  forces.  This  proposition  is  confounded  in  Edwards' 
mind,  as  in  that  of  most  metaphysicians,  with  the  very 
different  proposition  that  virtue  consists  in  recognising 
the  Divine  origin  of  those  forces  It  is  characteristic,  in 
fact,  of  his  metaphysical  school,  to  identify  the  logical  with 
the  causal  connection,  and  to  assume  that  the  definition  of 
a  thing  necessarily  constitutes  its  essence.  '  Virtue,'  says 
Edwards,  '  is  the  union  of  heart  to  being  in  general,  or  to 
God,  the  Being  of  beings  '  (ii.  421),  and  thus  consists  in 
the  intellectual  apprehension  of  Deity,  and  in  the  emotion 
founded  upon  and  necessarily  involving  the  apprehension. 
The  doctrine  that  whatever  is  done  so  as  to  promote  the 
glory  of  God  is  virtuous,  is  with  him  identified  with  the 
doctrine  that  whatever  is  done  consciously  in  order  to 
promote  the  glory  of  God  is  virtuous.  The  major  premiss 
of  the  syllogism  which  proves  an  action  to  be  virtuous  must 
be  actually  present  to  the  mind  of  the  agent.  This,  in 
utilitarian  phraseology,  is  to  confound  between  the  criterion 
and  the  motive.  If  it  is,  as  Edwards  says,  the  test  of  a 
virtuous  action  that  it  should  tend  to  '  the  highest  good  of 
being  in  general,'  it  does  not  follow  that  an  action  is  only 
virtuous  when  done  with  a  conscious  reference  to  that  end. 
But  Edwards  overlooks  or  denies  the  distinction,  and  assumes, 
for  example,  as  an  evident  corollary,  that  a  love  of  children 
or  friends  is  only  virtuous  in  so  far  as  it  is  founded  on  a 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  333 

desire  for  the  general  good,  which,  in  his  sense,  is  a  desire 
for  the  glory  of  God  (ii.  428).  He  judges  actions,  that  is, 
not  by  their  tendency,  but  by  their  nature  ;  and  their  nature 
is  equivalent  to  their  logic. 

His  metaphysical  theory  coincides  precisely  with  his 
theological  view,  and  is  generally  expressed  in  theological 
language.  The  love  of  '  Being  in  general '  is  the  love  of 
God.  The  intellectual  intuition  is  the  reflection  of  the 
inward  light,  and  the  recognition  of  a  mathematical  truth 
is  but  a  different  phase  of  the  process  which  elsewhere 
produces  conversion.  Intuition  is  a  kind  of  revelation,  and 
revelation  is  a  special  intuition. 

One  of  his  earliest  published   sermons  is   devoted  to 
prove  the  existence   of  '  a  Divine  and  supernatural  light, 
immediately  imparted  to  the  soul  by  the  Spirit  of  God  ' 
(vol.  viii.,  sermon  xxvii.).     On  that  fundamental  doctrine 
his  whole  theological  system  is  based  ;  as  his  metaphysical 
system  rests  on  the  existence  of  absolute  a  priori  truths. 
The  knowledge  of  God  sums  up  all  true  beliefs,  and  justifies 
all  virtuous  emotions,  as  the  power  of  God  supports  all 
creation  at  every  instant.     '  It   is    by  a   Divine   influence 
that  the   laws  of  nature  are  upheld,  and  a  constant  con- 
currence of  Divine  power  is  necessary  in  order  to  our  being, 
moving,    or   having  a  being'  (v.  419).     To  be  constantly 
drawing  sustenance  from  the  eternal  power  which  everywhere 
underlies   the   phenomena   of  the   world  is  the  necessary 
condition  of  spiritual   life,    as  to   breathe   the   air   is   the 
condition  of  physical  life.     The  force  which  this  conception, 
whether  true  or  false,  exercises  over  the  imagination,  and 
the  depth  which   it   gives    to    Edwards'  moral  views,  are 
manifest   at   every   turn.     Edwards   rises   far   above  those 
theories,  recurring  in  so  many  different  forms,  which  place 


334  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

the  essence  of  religion  in  some  outward  observances,  or  in 
a  set  of  propositions  not  vitally  connected  with  the  spiritual 
constitution.     Edwards'   contemporaries,  such   as  Lardner 
or  Sherlock,  thought  that  to  be  a  Christian  was  to  accept 
certain   results    of  antiquarian   research.     With   a  curious 
naivete  they  sometimes  say  that  a  ploughman  or  a  cobbler 
could  summarily  answer  the  problems  which  have  puzzled 
generations    of    critics.     Edwards    sees    the   absurdity    of 
hoping   that  a  genuine  faith  can  ever  be  based   on   such 
balancing  of  historical  probabilities.     The  cobbler  was  to 
be  awed  by  the  learned  man  ;  but  how  could  he  implicitly 
trust  a  learned  man  when  his  soul  was  at  stake,  and  when 
learned  men  differed?     To  convince   the  ignorant  or  the 
Houssatunnuck  Indian,  God's  voice  must  speak  through  a 
less  devious  channel.     The  transcendent  glory  of  Divine 
things  proves  their  Divinity  intuitively ;  the  mind  does  not 
indeed  discard  argument,  but  it  does  not  want  any  '  long 
chain  of  argument ;  the  argument  is  but  one  and  the  evidence 
direct  ;  the  mind  ascends  to  the  truth  of  the  Gospel  but 
by  one  step,  and   that  is  its    Divine   glory.'     The   moral 
theory  of  the  contemporary  rationalists  was  correlative  to 
their  religious  theory.     To  be  religious  was  to  believe  that 
certain  facts    had  once   happened  ;   to   be   moral   was   to 
believe  that  under  certain  circumstances  you  would  at  some 
future  time  go  to  hell.      Virtue  of  that  kind  was  not  to 
Edwards'  taste,  though  few  men  have  been  less  sparing  in 
using  the  appeal   to  damnation      But  threats  of  hell-fire 
were  only  meant  to  startle  the  sinner  from  his  repose.     His 
morality  could  be  framed  from  no  baser  material  than  love 
to  the  Divine  perfections.     'What  thanks  are  due  to  you 
for  not  loving  your  own  misery,  and  for  being  willing  to 
take  some  pains  to  escape  burning  in  hell  to  all  eternity  ? 


JON  A  THAN  ED  WA  RDS  33  5 

There  is  ne'er  a  devil  in  hell  but  would  gladly  do  the  same ' 
(viii.  145). 

The  strength,  however,  and  the  weakness  of  Edwards  as 
a  moralist  are  best  illustrated  from  the  two  treatises  on  the 
Religious  Affections  and  on  Original  Sin.  The  first,  which 
was  the  fruit  of  his  experiences  at  Northampton,  may  be 
described  as  a  system  of  religious  diagnostics.  By  what 
symptoms  are  you  to  distinguish — that  was  the  problem 
which  forced  itself  upon  him  -  the  spiritual  state  produced 
by  the  Divine  action  from  that  which  is  but  a  hollow 
mockery?  After  his  mode  of  judging  in  concrete  cases,  as 
already  indicated,  we  are  rather  surprised  by  the  calm  and 
sensible  tone  of  his  argument.  The  deep  sense  of  the  vast 
importance  of  the  events  to  which  he  was  a  witness  makes 
him  the  more  scrupulous  in  testing  their  real  character.  He 
resists  the  temptation  to  dwell  upon  those  noisy  and  ques- 
tionable manifestations  in  which  the  vulgar  thirst  for  the 
wonderful  found  the  most  appropriate  testimony  to  the 
work.  Roman  Catholic  archbishops  at  the  present  day  can 
exhort  their  hearers  to  put  their  faith  in  a  silly  story  of  a 
vision,  on  the  express  ground  that  the  popularity  of  the 
belief  amongst  Catholics  proves  its  Divine  origin.  That  is 
wonderfully  like  saying  that  a  successful  lie  should  be  patron- 
ised so  long  as  it  is  on  the  side  of  the  Church.  Edwards, 
brought  up  in  a  manlier  school,  deals  with  such  phenomena 
in  a  different  spirit.  Suppose,  he  says,  that  a  person  terri- 
fied by  threats  of  hell-fire  has  a  vision  '  of  a  person  with  a 
beautiful  countenance,  smiling  on  him  with  arms  open  and 
with  blood  dropping  down,'  whom  he  supposes  to  be  Christ 
come  to  promise  him  eternal  life,  are  we  to  assume  that 
this  vision  and  the  consequent  transports  infallibly  indicate 
supernatural  agency  ?     No,  he  replies,  with  equal  sense  and 


"*  "3 


36  NOUNS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

honesty  ;  '  he  must  have  but  slightly  considered  human 
nature  who  thinks  such  things  cannot  arise  in  this  manner 
without  any  supernatural  excitement  of  Divine  power'  (iv. 
72).  Many  mischievous  delusions  have  their  origin  in  this 
error.  '  It  is  a  low,  miserable  notion  of  spiritual  sense '  to 
suppose  that  these  '  external  ideas  '  (ideas,  that  is,  such  as 
enter  by  the  senses)  are  proofs  of  Divine  interference. 
Ample  experience  has  shown  that  they  are  proofs  not  of  the 
spiritual  health  which  comes  from  communion  with  God, 
but  of  '  weakness  of  body  and  mind  and  distempers  of 
body'(iv.  143).  Experience  has  supplied  exemplary  con- 
firmations of  Edwards'  wisdom.  Neither  bodily  convulsions, 
nor  vehement  excitement  of  mind,  nor  even  revelations  of 
things  to  come  (iv.  158),  are  sufficient  proofs  of  that  myste- 
rious change  of  soul  which  is  called  conversion.  No  external 
test,  in  fact,  can  be  given.  Man  cannot  judge  decisively, 
but  the  best  symptoms  are  such  proofs  as  increased 
humility,  a  love  of  Christ  for  His  own  sake,  without  reference 
to  heaven  or  hell,  a  sense  of  the  infinite  beauty  of  Divine 
things,  a  certain  '  symmetry  and  proportion  '  between  the 
affections  themselves  (iv.  314),  a  desire  for  higher  per- 
fection, and  a  rich  harvest  of  the  fruit  of  Christian 
practice. 

So  far,  Edwards  is  unassailable  from  his  own  point  of 
view.  Our  theory  of  religion  may  differ  from  his  ;  but  at 
least  he  fully  realises  how  profound  is  the  meaning  of  the 
word,  and  aims  at  conquering  all  human  faculties,  not  at 
contolling  a  few  external  manifestations.  But  his  further 
applications  of  the  theory  lead  him  into  more  doubtful 
speculations.  That  Being,  a  union  with  whom  constitutes 
true  holiness,  is  not  only  to  be  the  ideal  of  perfect  goodness, 
but  He  must  be  the  God  of  the  Calvinists,  who  fulfils  the 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  337 

stipulations  of  a  strange  legal  bargain,  and  the  God  ^i  the 
Jews,  who  sentences  whole  nations  to  massacre  for  the 
crimes  of  their  ancestors.  Edwards  has  hitherto  been 
really  protesting  against  that  lower  conception  of  God  which 
is  latent  in  at  least  the  popular  versions  of  Cathohc  or 
Arminian  theology,  and  to  which  Calvinism  opposes  a 
loftier  view.  God,  on  this  theory,  is  not  really  almighty,  for 
the  doctrine  of  free-will  places  human  actions  and  their 
results  beyond  His  control.  He  is  scarcely  omniscient,  for, 
like  human  rulers,  He  judges  by  actions,  not  by  the  intrinsic 
nature  of  the  soul,  and  therefore  distributes  His  rewards 
and  punishments  on  a  system  comparable  to  that  of  mere 
earthly  jurisprudence.  He  is  at  most  the  infallible  judge  of 
actions,  not  the  universal  ordainer  of  events  and  distributor 
of  life  and  happiness.  Edwards'  profound  conviction  of  the 
absolute  sovereignty  of  God  leads  him  to  reject  all  such 
feeble  conceptions.  But  he  has  now  to  tell  us  where  the 
Divine  influence  has  actually  displayed  itself ;  and  his  view 
becomes  strangely  narrowed.  Instead  of  confessing  that 
all  good  gifts  come  from  God,  he  infers  that  those  which 
do  not  come  from  his  own  God  must  be  radically  vicious. 
Already,  as  we  have  seen,  in  virtue  of  his  leading  principle, 
he  has  denied  to  all  natural  affections  the  right  to  be  truly 
virtuous.  Unless  they  involve  a  conscious  reference  to 
God,  they  are  but  delusive  resemblances  of  the  reality.  He 
admiis  that  the  natural  man  can  in  various  ways  produce 
very  fair  imitations  of  true  virtue.  By  help  of  association 
of  ideas,  for  example,  or  by  the  force  of  sympathy,  it  is 
possible  that  benevolence  may  become  pleasing  and  male- 
volence displeasing,  even  when  our  own  interest  is  not 
involved  (ii.  436).  Nay,  there  is  a  kind  of  moral  sense 
natural  to  man,  which  consists  in  a  cei-tain  perception  of 
VOL.    I.  z 


338  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

the  harmony  between  sin  and  punishment,  and  which  there- 
fore does  not  properly  spring  from  self-love.     This  moral 
sense  may  even  go  so  far  as  to  recognise  the  propriety  of 
yielding  all  to  the  God  from  whom  we  receive  everything 
(ii.  443),  and  the  justice  of  the  punishment  of  sinners.     And 
yet  this  natural  conscience  does  not  imply  the  existence  of 
a   'truly  virtuous   taste  or  determination  of  the  mind   to 
relish  and  delight  in  the  essential  beauty  of  true  virtue, 
arising  from  a  virtuous  benevolence  of  the  heart '  (ii.  445). 
God  has  bestowed  such  instincts  upon  men  for  their  pre- 
servation here ;  but  they  will  disappear  in   the  next  world, 
where  no  such  need  for  them  exists.     He  is  driven,  indeed, 
to  make  some  vague  concessions  (against  which  his  en- 
lightened commentators  protest),  to  the  effect  that  '  these 
things    [the   natural    affections]    have    something    of    the 
general  nature  of  virtue,  which  is   love  '  (ii.   456)  ;    but  no 
such    uncertain    affinity    can    make    them    worthy    to     be 
reckoned  with  that  union  with  God  which  is  the  effect  of 
the  Divine  intervention  alone. 

Edwards  is  thus  in  the  singular  position  of  a  Pantheist 
who  yet  regards  all  nature  as  alienated  from  God  ;  and  in 
the  treatise  on  Original  Sin  he  brings  out  the  more  revolting 
consequences  of  that  vie\y  by  help  of  the  theological  dogma 
of  corruption.     He  there  maintains  in  its  fullest  sense  the 
terrible  thesis,  that  all  men  are  naturally  in  a  state  of  which 
the  inevitable  issue  is  their  '  utter  eternal  perdition,  as  being 
finally  accursed  of  God  and  the  subjects  of  His  remediless 
wrath  through  sin  '  (vi.  137).     The  evidence  of  this  appal- 
ling statement  is  made  up,  with  a  simplicity  which  would  be 
amusing  if  employed  in  a  less  fearful  cause,  of  various  texts 
from  Scripture,  quoted,  of  course,  after  the  most  profoundly 
unhistorical  fashion  ;  of  inferences  from   the  universality  of 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  339 

death,  regarded  as  the  penalty  incurred  by  Adam ;  of 
general  reflections  upon  the  heathen  world  and  the  idolatry 
of  the  Jews  ;  and  of  the  sentences  pronounced  by  Jehovah 
against  the  Canaanites.  In  one  of  his  sermons,  of  por- 
tentous length  and  ferocity  (vol.  vii.,  sermon  iii.),  he  expands 
the  doctrine  that  natural  men — whicli  includes  all  men  who 
have  not  gone  through  the  mysterious  process  of  conversion 
— are  God's  enemies.  Their  heart,  he  says,  'is  like  a  viper, 
hissing  and  spitting  poison  at  God  ;  '  and  God  requites 
their  ill-will  with  undying  enmity  and  never-ceasing  tor- 
ments. Their  unconsciousness  of  that  enmity,  and  even 
their  belief  that  they  are  rightly  affected  towards  God, 
is  no  proof  that  the  enmity  does  not  exist.  The  conse- 
quences may  be  conceived.  '  God  who  made  you  has 
given  you  a  capacity  to  bear  torment  ;  and  He  has  that 
capacity  in  His  hands  ;  and  He  can  enlarge  it  and  make 
you  capable  of  more  misery,  as  much  as  He  will.  If 
God  hates  anyone  and  sets  Himself  against  him  as  His 
enemy,  what  cannot  He  do  with  him  ?  How  dreadful 
it  must  be  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  such  an  enemy  ! '  (vii. 
201).  How  dreadful,  we  add,  is  the  conception  of  the 
universe  which  implies  that  God  is  such  an  enemy  of  the 
bulk  of  His  creatures  ;  and  how  strangely  it  combines  with 
the  mild  Pantheism  which  traces  and  adores  the  hand  of 
God  in  all  natural  objects  !  The  doctrine,  it  is  to  be 
observed,  which  is  expanded  through  many  pages  of  the 
book  on  Original  Sin,  is  not  merely  that  men  are  legally 
guilty,  as  being  devoid  of  'true  virtue,'  though  possessed  of 
a  certain  factitious  moral  sense,  but  that  they  are  actually 
for  the  most  part  detestably  wicked.  One  illustration  of 
his  method  may  be  sufficient.  The  vileness  of  man  is 
proved  by  the  remark  (not  peculiar  to  Edwards),  that  men 

z  2 


340  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

who  used  to  live  i,ooo  years  now  live  only  70  ;  whilst 
throughout  Christendom  their  life  does  not  average  more 
than  40  or  50  years  ;  so  that  '  sensuality  and  debauchery  ' 
have  shortened  our  days  to  a  twentieth  part  of  our  former 
allowance. 

Thus  the  Divine  power,  which  is  in  one  sense  the  sole 
moving  force  of  the  universe,  is  limited,  so  far  as  its  opera- 
tion upon  men's  hearts  is  concerned,  to  that  small  minority 
who  have  gone  through  the  process  of  conversion  as  recog- 
nised by  Edwards'  sect.  All  others,  heathens,  infants,  and 
the  great  mass  of  professed  Christians,  are  sentenced  to 
irretrievable  perdition.  The  simplicity  with  which  he  con- 
demns all  other  forms,  even  of  his  own  religion,  is  almost 
touching.  He  incidentally  remarks,  for  example,  that  exter- 
nal exercises  may  not  show  true  virtue,  because  they  have 
frequently  proceeded  from  false  religion.  Members  of  the 
Romish  Church  and  many  ancient  'hermits  and  anchorites' 
have  been  most  energetic  in  such  exercises,  and  Edwards 
once  lived  next  to  a  Jew  who  appeared  to  him  '  the  devout- 
est  person  that  he  ever  saw  in  his  life  '  (iv.  90) ;  but,  as  he 
quietly  assumes,  all  such  appearances  must  of  course  be 
delusive. 

Once  more,  then,  we  are  brought  back  to  the  question, 
How  could  any  man  hold  such  doctrines  without  going 
mad  ?  or,  as  experience  has  reconciled  us  to  that  pheno- 
menon. How  could  a  man  with  so  many  elevated  conceptions 
of  the  truth  reconcile  these  ghastly  conclusions  to  the  nobler 
part  of  his  creed  ?  Edwards'  own  explanations  of  the 
difficulty— such  as  they  are— do  not  help  us  very  far.  The 
argument  by  which  he  habitually  defends  the  justice  of  the 
Almighty  sounds  very  much  like  a  poor  (|uibble  in  his 
mouth,  though  it   is   not  peculiar  to  him.     Our  obligation 


JON  A  THA  N  ED  WA  RDS  34 1 

towards  God,  he  says,  must  be  in  proportion  to  His  merits ; 
therefore  it  is  infinite.  Now  there  is  no  merit  in  paying  a 
debt  which  we  owe  ;  and  hence  the  fullest  discharge  of 
our  duty  deserves  no  reward.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is 
demerit  in  refusing  to  pay  a  debt,  and  therefore  any  short- 
coming deserves  an  infinite  penalty  (vi.  155).  "NA'ithout 
examining  whether  our  duty  is  proportional  to  the  perfection 
of  its  object,  and  is  irrespective  of  our  capacities,  there  is 
one  vital  objection  to  this  doctrine,  which  Edwards  had 
adopted  from  less  coherent  reasoners.  His  theory,  as  I 
have  said,  so  far  from  destroying  virtue,  gives  it  the  fullest 
possible  meaning.  There  can  be  no  more  profound  dis- 
tinction than  between  the  affections  which  harmonise  with 
the  Divine  will  and  those  which  are  discordant,  though  it 
might  puzzle  a  more  consistent  Pantheist  to  account  for  the 
existence  of  the  latter.  That,  however,  is  a  primary  doctrine 
with  Edwards.  But  if  virtue  remains,  it  is  certain  that  his 
theory  seems  to  be  destructive  both  of  merit  and  demerit  as 
between  man  and  God.  If  we  are  but  clay  in  the  hands  of 
the  potter,  there  is  no  intelligible  meaning  in  our  deserving 
from  Him  either  good  or  evil.  We  are  as  He  has  made  us. 
Edwards  explains,  indeed,  that  the  sense  of  desert  implies  a 
certain  natural  congruity  between  evil-doing  and  punishment 
(ii.  430).  But  the  question  recurs,  how  in  such  a  case  the 
congruity  arises  ?  It  is  one  of  the  illusions  which  should 
disappear  when  we  rise  to  the  sphere  of  the  absolute  and 
infinite.  The  metaphor  about  a  debt  and  its  payment, 
though  common  in  vulgar  Calvinism,  is  quite  below  Edwards' 
usual  level  of  thought.  And,  if  we  try  to  restate  the  argu- 
ment in  a  more  congenial  form,  its  force  disappears.  The 
love  of  God,  even  though  imperfect,  should  surely  imply 
some  conformity  to  His  nature  ;  and  even  an  imperfect  love 


342  -HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

should  hardly  be  confounded,  one  might  fancy,  with  an 
absolute  enmity  to  the  Creator.  Though  the  argument, 
which  is  several  times  repeated,  appears  to  have  satisfied 
Edwards,  it  would  have  been  more  in  harmony  with  his 
principles  to  declare  that,  as  between  man  and  his  God, 
there  could  be  no  question  of  justice.  The  absolute  sove- 
reignty of  the  Creator  is  the  only,  and  to  him  it  should  be 
the  conclusive,  answer  to  such  complaints.  But,  whatever 
may  be  the  fate  of  this  apology,  the  one  irremovable  diffi- 
culty remains  behind.  If  God  be  the  one  universal  cause 
of  all  things,  is  He  not  the  cause  of  evil  as  well  as  good  ? 
Do  you  not  make  God,  in  short,  the  author  of  sin  } 

With  this  final  difficulty,  which,  indeed,  besets  all  such 
theories,  Edwards  struggles  long  and  with  less  than  his 
usual  vigour.  He  tries  to  show,  and  perhaps  successfully, 
that  the  difficulty  concerns  his  opponents  as  much  as  him- 
self. They  can,  at  least,  escape  only  by  creating  a  new  kind  of 
necessity,  under  the  name  of  contingency  ;  for  God  is,  on  this 
theory,  like  a  mariner  who  has  constantly  to  shape  his  course 
to  meet  unforeseen  and  uncontrollable  gusts  of  wind  (v.  298)  ; 
and  to  make  the  best  of  it.  He  insists  upon  the  difference, 
not  very  congenial  to  his  scheme,  between  ordering  and 
permitting  evil.  The  sun,  he  says  (v.  293),  causes  light, 
but  is  only  the  occasion  of  darkness.  If,  however,  the  sun 
voluntarily  retired  from  the  world,  it  could  scarcely  evade 
the  responsibility  of  its  absence.  And  finally,  he  makes 
the  ordinary  distinction,  and  that  w^hich  is  perhaps  the  best 
answer  to  be  made  to  an  unanswerable  difficulty.  Christ's 
crucifixion,  he  says,  was  so  far  bad  as  it  was  brought  about 
by  malignant  murderers  :  but  as  considered  by  God,  with  a 
view  to  all  its  glorious  consequences,  it  was  not  evil,  but 
good  (v.  297).     And  thus  any  action  may  have  two  aspects  ; 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS  343 

and  that  which  appears  to  us,  whose  view  is  necessarily 
limited,  as  simply  evil,  may,  when  considered  by  an  infinite 
intelligence,  as  part  of  the  general  order  of  things,  be  abso- 
lutely good.  God  does  not  will  sin  as  sin,  but  as  a  necessary 
part  of  a  generally  perfect  system. 

Here,  however,  in  front  of  that  ultimate  mystery  which 
occurs  in  all  speculation,  I  must  take  leave  of  this  singular 
thinker.  In  a  frequently  quoted  passage,  Mackintosh  speaks 
of  his  '  power  of  subtle  argument,  perhaps  unmatched,  cer- 
tainly unsurpassed  amongst  men.'  The  eulogy  seems  to  be 
rather  overstrained,  unless  we  measure  subtlety  of  thought 
rather  by  the  complexity  and  elaboration  of  its  embodiment 
than  by  the  keenness  of  the  thought  itself.  But  that  Ed- 
wards possessed  extraordinary  acuteness  is  as  clear  as  it  is 
singular  that  so  acute  a  man  should  have  suffered  his  intel- 
lectual activity  to  be  restrained  within  such  narrow  fetters. 
Placed  in  a  different  medium,  under  the  same  circumstances, 
for  example,  as  Hume  or  Kant,  he  might  have  developed  a 
system  of  metaphysics  comparable  in  its  effect  upon  the 
history  of  thought  to  the  doctrines  of  either  of  those  thinkers. 
He  was,  one  might  fancy,  formed  by  nature  to  be  a  German 
professor,  and  accidentally  dropped  into  the  American 
forests.  Far  away  from  the  main  currents  of  speculation, 
ignorant  of  the  conclusions  reached  by  his  most  cultivated 
contemporaries,  and  deriving  his  intellectual  sustenance 
chiefly  from  an  obsolete  theology,  with  some  vague  know- 
ledge of  the  English  followers  of  Locke,  his  mind  never 
expanded  itself  freely.  Yet,  even  after  making  allowance  fo^ 
his  secluded  life,  we  are  astonished  at  the  powerful  grasp 
which  Calvinism,  in  its  expiring  age,  had  laid  upon  so  pene- 
trating an  intellect.  The  framework  of  dogma  was  so 
powerful,  that  the  explosive  force  of  Edwards'  speculations, 


344  HOURS  TN  A    LIBRARY 

instead  of  destroying  his  early  principles  by  its  recoil,  ex- 
pended its  whole  energy  along  the  line  in  which  orthodox 
opinion  was  not  injured.  Most  bold  speculators,  indeed, 
suffer  from  a  kind  of  colour-blindness,  which  conceals  from 
them  a  whole  order  of  ideas,  sufficiently  familiar  to  very 
inferior  minds.  Edwards'  utter  unconsciousness  of  the 
aspect  which  his  doctrines  would  present  to  anyone  who 
should  have  passed  beyond  the  charmed  circle  of  orthodox 
sentiment  is,  however,  more  surprising  than  the  similar 
defect  in  any  thinker  of  nearly  equal  acuteness.  In  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  he  is  still  in  bondage  to 
the  dogmas  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  ;  he  is  as  indifferent  to 
the  audacious  revolt  of  the  deists  and  Hume  as  if  the  old 
theological  dynasty  were  still  in  full  vigour  ;  and  the  fact, 
whatever  else  it  may  prove,  proves  something  for  the  endur- 
ing vitality  of  the  ideas  which  had  found  an  imperfect  ex- 
pression in  Calvinism.  Clearing  away  the  crust  of  ancient 
superstition,  we  may  still  find  in  Edwards'  writings  a  system 
of  morality  as  ennobling,  and  a  theory  of  the  universe  as 
elevated,  as  can  be  discovered  in  any  theology.  That  the 
crust  was  thick  and  hard,  and  often  revolting  in  its  composi- 
tion, is,  indeed,  undeniable  ;  but  the  genuine  metal  is  there, 
no  less  unmistakably  than  the  refuse. 


345 


HORACE   WALPOLE 

The  history  of  England,  throughout  a  very  large  segment  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  is  simply  a  synonym  for  the  works 
of  Horace  Walpole.  There  are,  indeed,  some  other  books 
upon  the  subject.  Some  good  stories  are  scattered  up  and 
down  the  'Annual  Register,' the 'Gentleman's  Magazine,' and 
Nichols'  '  Anecdotes.'  There  is  a  speech  or  two  of  Burke's 
not  without  merit,  and  a  readable  letter  may  be  disinterred 
every  now  and  then  from  beneath  the  piles  of  contemporary 
correspondence.  When  the  history  of  the  times  comes  to 
be  finally  written  in  the  fashion  now  prevalent,  in  which  some 
six  portly  octavos  are  allotted  to  a  year,  and  an  event  takes 
longer  to  describe  than  to  occur,  the  industrious  will  find 
ample  mines  of  waste-paper  in  which  they  may  quarry  to 
their  heart's  content.  Though  Hansard  was  not,  and  news- 
papers were  in  their  infancy,  the  shelves  of  the  British 
Museum  and  other  repositories  groan  beneath  mountains  of 
State  papers,  law  reports,  pamphlets,  and  chaotic  raw  mate- 
rials, from  which  some  precious  ore  may  be  smelted  down. 
But  these  amorphous  masses  are  attractive  chiefly  to  the 
philosophers  who  are  too  profound  to  care  for  individual 
character,  or  to  those  praiseworthy  students  who  would 
think  the  labour  of  a  year  well  rewarded  by  the  discovery 
of  a  single  fact  tending  to  throw  a  shade  of  additional  per- 
plexityupon  the  secret  of  Junius.     Walpole's  writings  belong 


346  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

to  the  good  old-fashioned  type  of  history,  which  aspires  to 
be  nothing  more  than  the  (luintessence  of  contemporary 
gossip.  If  the  opinion  be  pardonable  in  these  days,  history 
of  that  kind  has  not  only  its  charm,  but  its  serious  value. 
If  not  very  profound  or  comprehensive,  it  impresses  upon 
us  the  fact — so  often  forgotten — that  our  grandfathers  were 
human  beings.  The  ordinary  historian  reduces  them  to 
mere  mechanical  mummies  ;  in  Walpole's  pages  they  are 
still  living  flesh  and  blood.  Turn  over  any  of  the  proper 
decorous  history  books,  mark  every  passage  where,  for  a 
moment,  we  seem  to  be  transported  to  the  past — to  the 
thunders  of  Chatham,  the  drivellings  of  Newcastle,  or  the 
prosings  of  George  Grenville,  as  they  sounded  in  contem- 
porary ears — and  it  will  be  safe  to  say  that,  on  counting 
them  up,  a  good  half  will  turn  out  to  be  reflections  from 
the  illuminating  flashes  of  Walpole.  Excise  all  that  comes 
from  him,  and  the  history  sinks  towards  the  level  of  the 
solid  Archdeacon  Coxe  ;  add  his  keen  touches,  and,  as  in 
the  '  Castle  of  Otranto,'  the  portraits  of  our  respectable  old 
ancestors,  which  have  been  hanging  in  gloomy  repose  upon 
the  wall,  suddenly  step  from  their  frames,  and,  for  some 
brief  space,  assume  a  spectral  vitality. 

It  is  only  according  to  rule  that  a  writer  who  has  been 
so  useful  should  have  been  a  good  deal  abused.  No  one  is 
so  amusing  and  so  generally  unpopular  as  a  clever  retailer 
of  gossip.  Yet  it  does  seem  rather  hard  that  Walpole  should 
have  received  such  hard  measure  from  Macaulay,  through 
whose  pages  so  much  of  his  light  has  been  transfused.  The 
explanation,  perhaps,  is  easy.  Macaulay  dearly  loved  the 
paradox  that  a  man  wrote  admirably  precisely  because  he 
was  a  fool,  and  applied  it  to  the  two  greatest  portrait  painters 
of  the'   times — Walpole  and  Boswell.     There  is  something 


HORACE    W A  LP  OLE  347 

which  hurts  our  best  feelings  in  the  success  of  a  man  whom 
we  heartily  despise.     It  seems  to  imply,  which  is  intolerable, 
that  our  penetration  has  been  at  fault,  or  that  merit -that  is 
to  say,  our  own   conspicuous  quality     is  liable  to  be  out- 
stripped in  this  world   by  imposture.     It  is  consoling  if  we 
can  wrap  ourselves  in  the  belief  that  good  work  can  be  ex- 
tracted from  bad  brains,  and  that  shallowness,  affectation, 
and  levity  can,  by  some  strange  chemistry,  be  transmuted 
into  a  substitute  for  genius.     Do  we  not  all,  if  we  have 
reached  middle  age,  remember  some  idiot  (of  course  he  was 
an  idiot  !)  at  school  or  college  who  has  somehow  managed 
to  slip  past  us  in  the  race  of  life,  and  revenge  ourselves  by 
swearing  that  he  is  an  idiot  still,  and  that  idiocy  is  a  quali- 
fication for  good  fortune  ?     Swift  somewhere  says  that  a 
paper-cutter  does  its  work  all  the  better  when  it  is  blunt, 
and  converts  the  fact  into  an  allegory  of  human   affairs, 
showing  that  decorous  dulness  is  an  over-match  for  genius. 
Macaulay  was  incapable,  both  in  a  good  and  bad  sense,  of 
Swift's  trenchant  misanthropy.     His  dislike  to  Walpole  was 
founded   not  so  much  upon  posthumous  jealousy — though 
that  passion   is  not  so  rare  as  absurd — as  on  the  singular 
contrast  between  the  character  and  intellect  ofthetwomen. 
The  typical  Englishman,  with  his  rough,  strong  sense,  pass- 
ing at  times  into  the  narrowest  insular  prejudice,  detested 
the  Frenchified  fine   gentleman  who    minced   his   mother 
tongue  and  piqued  himself  on  cosmopolitan  indifference  to 
patriotic  sentiment  :    the  ambitious  historian  was  irritated 
by  the  contempt  which  the  dilettante  dabbler  in  literature 
affected   for   their   common  art ;    and   the   thoroughgoing 
Whig  was  scandalised  by  the  man  who,  whilst  claiming  that 
sacred  name,   and  living  face  to  face  with  Chatham  and 
Burke  and  the  great  Revolution  families   in  all  their  glory. 


348        •  HOURS  FN  A    LIBRARY 

ventured   to    intimate   his   opinion   that    they,    hke   other 
idols,  had  a  fair  share  of  clay  and  rubbish  in  their  com- 
position, and  who,  after  professing  a  kind  of  sham  republi- 
canism,  was  frightened  by  the  French  Revolution  into  a 
paroxysm  of  ultra-Toryism.     '  You  wretched  fribble  ! '  ex- 
claims Macaulay  ;  '  you  shallow  scorner  of  all  that  is  noble  ! 
You  are  nothing  but  a  heap  of  silly  whims  and  conceited  airs ! 
Strip  off  one  mask  of  affectation  from  your  mind,  and  we 
are  still  as  far  as  ever  from  the  real  man.     The  very  highest 
faculty  that  can  be  conceded  to  you  is  a  keen  eye  for  oddi- 
ties, whether  in  old  curiosity  shops  or  in  Parliament ;  and 
to  that  you  owe  whatever  just  reputation  you  have  acquired.' 
Macaulay's  fervour  of  rebuke  is  amusing,  though,  by  right- 
eous Nemesis,  it   includes  a  species  of  blindness  as  gross 
as  any  that  he  attributes  to  Walpole.     The  summary  de- 
cision that  the  chief  use  of  France  is  to  interpret  England 
to  Europe,  is  a  typical  example  of  that  insular  arrogance 
for    which    Matthew    Arnold    popularised    the    name    of 
Philistinism. 

Yet  criticism  of  this  one-sided  kind  has  its  value.  At 
least  it  suggests  a  problem.  What  is  the  element  left  out  of 
account  ?  Folly  is  never  the  real  secret  of  a  literary  reputa- 
tion, or  what  noble  harvests  of  genius  we  should  produce  ! 
If  we  patiently  take  off  all  the  masks  we  must  come  at  last 
to  the  animating  principle  beneath.  Even  the  great  clothes 
philosophers  did  not  hold  that  a  mere  Chinese  puzzle  of 
mask  within  mask  could  enclose  sheer  vacancy  ;  there  must 
be  some  kernel  within,  which  may  be  discovered  by  sufficient 
patience.  And  in  the  first  place,  it  may  be  asked,  why  did 
poor  Walpole  wear  a  mask  at  all  ?  The  answer  seems  to  be 
obvious.  The  men  of  that  age  may  be  divided  by  a  line 
which,  to  the  pliilosophic  eye,  is  of  far  more  imi)ortance 


HORACE    WALPOLE  349 

than  that  which  separated  Jacobites  from  loyal  Whigs  or 
Dissenters  from  High  Churchmen.  It  separated  the  men 
who  could  drink  two  bottles  of  port  after  dinner  from  the 
men  who  could  not.  To  men  of  delicate  digestions  the  test 
imposed  by  the  jovial  party  in  ascendency  must  have  been 
severer  than  those  due  to  political  and  ecclesiastical  bigotry. 
They  had  to  choose  between  social  disabilities  on  the  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  indigestion  for  themselves  and  gout 
for  their  descendants.  Thackeray,  in  a  truly  pathetic  pas- 
sage, partly  draws  the  veil  from  their  sufferings.  Almost  all 
the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  he  observes,  were  fat  : 
'  Swift  was  fat ;  Addison  was  fat ;  Gay  and  Thomson  were 
preposterously  fat;  all  that  fuddling  and  punch-drinking, 
that  club  and  coffee-house  boosing,  shortened  the  lives  and 
enlarged  the  waistcoats  of  men  of  that  age.'  Think  of  the 
dinner  described,  though  with  intentional  exaggeration,  in 
Swift's  '  Polite  Conversation,'  and  compare  the  bill  of  fare 
wnth  the  menu  of  a  modern  London  dinner.  The  very  report 
of  such  conviviality  — before  which  Christopher  North's  per- 
formances in  the  '  Noctes  Ambrosianae  '  sink  into  insignifi- 
cance— is  enough  to  produce  nightmares  in  the  men  of  our 
degenerate  times,  and  may  help  us  to  understand  the  peevish- 
ness of  feeble  invalids  such  as  Pope  and  Lord  Hervey  in 
the  elder  generation,  or  Walpole  in  that  which  was  rising. 
Amongst  these  Gargantuan  consumers,  who  combined  in 
one  the  attributes  of  '  gorging  Jack  and  guzzling  Jemmy,' 
Sir  Robert  Walpole  was  celebrated  for  his  powers,  and  seems 
to  have  owed  to  them  no  small  share  of  his^popularity. 
Horace  writes  piteously  from  the  paternal  mansion,  to  which 
he  had  returned  in  1743,  not  long  after  his  tour  in  Italy,  to 
one  of  his  artistic  friends  :  '  Only  imagine,'  he  exclaims, 
'that  I  here  every  day  see  men  who  are  mountains  of  roast 


350  HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 

beef,  and  only  seem  just  roughly  hewn  out  into  outlines  of 
human  form,  like  the  giant  rock  at  Pratolino  !     I  shudder 
when  I  see  them  brandish  their  knives  in  act  to  carve,  and 
look  on  them  as  savages  that  devour  one  another.     I  should 
not  stare  at  all  more  than  I  do  if  yonder  alderman  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  table  were  to  stick  his  fork  into  his  neigh- 
bour's jolly  cheek,  and  cut  a  brave  slice  of  brown  and  fat. 
Why,  I'll  swear  I  see  no  difference  between  a  country  gentle- 
man and  a  sirloin  ;  whenever  the  first  laughs  or  the  second 
is  cut,  there  run  out  just  the  same  streams  of  gravy  !  Indeed, 
the  sirloin  does  not  ask  quite  so  many  questions.'     What 
was  the  style  of  conversation  at  these  tremendous  entertain- 
ments had  better  be  left  to  the  imagination.     Sir  R.  Walpole's 
theory  on  that  subject  is  upon  record  ;  and  we  can  dimly 
guess  at  the  feelings  of  a  delicate  young  gentleman  who  had 
just  learnt  to  talk  about  Domenichinos  and  Guidos,  and  to 
buy  ancient  bronzes,  when  plunged  into  the  coarse  society 
of  these  mountains  of  roast  beef.     As  he  grew  up  manners 
became  a  trifle  more  refined,  and  the  customs  described  so 
faithfully  by  Fielding  and  Smollett   belonged  to  a  lower 
social  stratum.     Yet  we  can  fancy  Walpole's  occasional  visit 
to  his  constituents,  and  imagine  him  forced  to  preside  at 
one  of  those  election  feasts  which  still  survive  on  Hogarth's 
canvas.     Substitute  him  for  the  luckless  fine  gentleman  in 
a  laced  coat,  who  represents  the  successful  candidate  in  the 
first  picture  of  the  series.     A  drunken  voter  is   dropping 
lighted  pipe  ashes  upon  his  wig ;  a  hideous  old  hag  is  pick- 
ing his  pockets ;  a  boy  is  brewing  oceans  of  punch   in  a 
mash-tub  ;  a  man  is  blowing  bagpipes  in  his  ear  ;   a  fat 
parson  close  by  is  gorging  the  remains  of  a  haunch  of  veni- 
son ;  a  butcher  is  pouring  gin  on  his  neighbour's  broken 
head  ;  an   alderman— a  very   mountain    of  roast   beef— is 


HORACE    W ALP  OLE  351 

sinking  back  in  a  fit,  whilst  a  barber  is  trying  to  bleed  him  ; 
brickbats  are  flying  in  at  the  windows  ;  the  room  reeks  with 
the  stale  smell  of  heavy  viands  and  the  fresh  vapours  of 
punch  and  gin,  whilst  the  very  air  is  laden  with  discordant 
howls  and  thick  with  oaths  and  ribald  songs.  Only  think 
of  the  smart  young  candidate's  headache  next  morning  in 
the  days  when  soda-water  was  not  invented  !  And  remem- 
ber too  that  the  representatives  were  not  entirely  free  from 
sympathy  with  the  coarseness  of  their  constituents.  Just  at 
the  period  of  Hogarth's  painting,  Walpole,  when  speaking  of 
the  feeling  excited  by  a  Westminster  election,  has  occasion 
to  use  this  pleasing  'new  fashionable  proverb'— 'We  spat 
in  his  hat  on  Thursday,  and  wiped  it  off  on  Friday.'  It 
owed  its  origin  to  a  feat  performed  by  Lord  Cobham  at  an 
assembly  given  at  his  own  house.  For  a  bet  of  a  guinea  he 
came  behind  Lord  Hervey,  who  was  talking  to  some  ladies, 
and  made  use  of  his  hat  as  a  spittoon.  The  point  of  the 
joke  was  that  Lord  Hervey — son  of  Pope's  '  mere  white 
curd  of  asses'  milk,'  and  related,  as  the  scandal  went,  rather 
too  closely  to  Horace  Walpole  himself —was  a  person  of 
effeminate  appearance,  and  therefore  considered  unlikely — 
wrongly,  as  it  turned  out -to  resent  the  insult.  We  may 
charitably  hope  that  the  assailants,  who  thus  practically 
exemplified  the  proper  mode  of  treating  milksops,  were 
drunk.  The  two-bottle  men  who  lingered  till  our  day  were 
surviving  relics  of  the  type  which  then  gave  the  tone  to 
society.  Within  a  short  period  there  was  a  Prime  Minister 
who  always  consoled  himself  under  defeats  and  celebrated 
triumphs  with  his  bottle  ;  a  Chancellor  who  abolished  even- 
ing sittings  on  the  ground  that  he  was  always  drunk  in  the 
evening  ;  and  even  an  archbishop— an  Irish  archbishop,  it 
is  true — whose  jovial  habits  broke  down  his  constitution. 


352  HOURS   IN  A    LIBRARY 

Scratch  those  jovial  toping  aristocrats,  and  you  everywhere 
find  the  Squire  Western.  A  man  of  squeamish  tastes  and 
excessive  sensibihty  who  jostled  amongst  that  thick-skinned, 
iron-nerved  generation,  was  in  a  position  with  which  any- 
one may  sympathise  who  knows  the  sufferings  of  a  delicate 
lad  at  a  public  school  in  the  old  (and  not  so  very  old)  brutal 
days.  The  victim  of  that  tyranny  slunk  away  from  the 
rough  horseplay  of  his  companions  to  muse,  like  Dobbin, 
over  the  '  Arabian  Nights'  in  a  corner,  or  find  some  amuse- 
ment which  his  tormentors  held  to  be  only  fit  for  girls.  So 
Horace  Walpole  retired  to  Strawberry  Hill  and  made  toys 
of  Gothic  architecture,  or  heraldry,  or  dilettante  antiqua- 
rianism.  The  great  discovery  had  not  then  been  made,  we 
must  remember,  that  excellence  in  field  sports  deserved  to 
be  placed  on  a  level  with  the  Christian  virtues.  The  fine 
gentlemen  of  the  Chesterfield  era  speak  of  fox-hunting  pretty 
much  as  we  speak  of  prize-fighting  and  bull-baiting.  When 
all  manly  exercises  had  an  inseparable  taint  of  coarseness, 
dehcate  people  naturally  mistook  effeminacy  for  refinement. 
When  you  can  only  join  in  male  society  on  pain  of  drinking 
yourself  under  the  table,  the  safest  plan  is  to  retire  to  tea- 
tables  and  small  talk.  For  many  years,  Walpole's  greatest 
pleasure  seems  to  have  been  drinking  tea  with  Lady  Suffolk, 
and  carefully  piecing  together  bits  of  scandal  about  the 
Courts  of  the  first  two  Georges.  He  tells  us,  with  all  the 
triumph  of  a  philosopher  describing  a  brilliant  scientific 
induction,  how  he  was  sometimes  able,  by  adding  his  bits 
of  gossip  to  hers,  to  unravel  the  secret  of  some  wretched 
intrigue  which  had  puzzled  two  generations  of  quidnuncs. 
The  social  triumphs  on  which  he  most  piqued  himself  were 
of  a  congenial  order.  He  sits  down  to  write  elaborate  letters 
to  Sir  Horace  Mann,  at  Florence,  brimming  over  with  irre- 


HORACE    W ALP  OLE  353 

prcssible  triumph  when  he  has  persuaded  some  titled  ladies 
to  visit  his  pet  toy,  the  printing-press,  at  Strawberry  Hill, 
and  there,  of  course  to  their  unspeakable  surprise,  his  printer 
draws  off  a  copy  of  verses  composed  in  their  honour  in  the 
most  faded  style  of  old-fashioned  gallantry.  He  is  intoxi- 
cated by  his  appointment  to  act  as  poet-laureate  on  the 
occasion  of  a  visit  of  the  Princess  Amelia  to  Stowe.  She  is 
solemnly  conducted  to  a  temple  of  the  Muses  and  Apollo, 
and  there  finds  one  of  his  admirable  effusions — 

T'other  day  with  a  beautiful  frown  on  her  hrow, 
To  the  rest  of  the  gods  said  the  Venus  of  Stow  e  : 

and  so  on.  *She  was  really  in  Elysium,'  he  declare?,  and 
visited  the  arch  erected  in  her  honour  three  or  four  times 
a  day. 

It   is    not    wonderful,    we    must    confess,    that    burly 
ministers  and  jovial  squires  laughed  horse-laughs   at    this 
mincing  dandy,  and  tried  in  their  clumsy  fashion  to  avenge 
themselves  for  the  sarcasms  which,  as  they  instinctively  felt, 
lay  hid  beneath  this  mask  of  affectation.    The  enmity  between 
the  lapdog  and  the  mastiff  is  an  old  story.     Nor,  as  we  must 
confess  again,  were  these  tastes  redeemed  by  very  amiable 
qualities  beneath  the  smooth  external  surface.     There  was 
plenty  of  feminine  spite  as  well  as  feminine  delicacy.     To 
the   marked   fear   of  ridicule   natural   to   a  sensitive  man 
Walpole  joined  a  very   happy  knack  of  quarrelling.     He 
could  protrude  a  feline  set  of  claws   from  his  velvet  glove. 
He  was  a  touchy  companion  and  an  intolerable  superior. 
He  set  out  by   quarrelling  with   Gray,  who,   as  it  seems, 
could  not  stand  his  dandified  airs  of  social  impertinence, 
though  it  must  be  added  in  fairness  that  the  bond  which 
unites  fellow-travellers  is,  perhaps,  the  most  trying  known 

VOL.    I.  A  A 


354 


HOURS  IN  A    LIBRARY 


to  humanity.     He  quarrelled  with  Mason  after  twelve  years 
of  intimate  correspondence  ;  he  quarrelled  with  Montagu 
after  a  friendship  of  some  forty  years  ;    he  always  thought 
that  his  dependents,  such  as  Bentley,  were  angels  for  six 
months,  and  made  their  lives  a  burden  to  them  afterwards; 
he  had  a  long  and  complex  series  of  quarrels  with  all  his 
near   relations.     Sir    Horace    Mann    escaped   any    quarrel 
during  forty-five  years  of  correspondence  ;  but  Sir  Horace 
never  left  Florence  and  Walpole  never  reached  it.     Conway 
alone  remained  intimate  and  immaculate  to  the  end,  though 
there   is   a  bitter   remark   or  two  in  the  Memoirs  against 
the   perfect  Conway.     With  ladies,  indeed,  Walpole  suc- 
ceeded  better ;    and   perhaps   we   may   accept,    with   due 
allowance  for  the  artist's  pomt   of  view,  his  own  portrait 
of  himself.     He   pronounces  himself  to  be  a  'boundless 
friend,  a  bitter  but  placable  enemy.'     Making  the  neces- 
sary  corrections,    we   should    translate  this  into   '  a  bitter 
enemy,  a  warm  but  irritable  friend.'    Tread  on  his  toes,  and 
he  would  let  you  feel  his  claws,  though  you  were  his  oldest 
friend ;  but  so  long  as  you  avoided  his  numerous  tender 
points,  he  showed  a  genuine  capacity  for  kindliness  and 
even  affection  ;  and  in  his  later  years  he  mellowed  down 
into   an   amiable   purring   old  gentleman,  responding  with 
eager  gratitude  to  the  caresses  of  the  charming  Miss  Berrys. 
Such  a  man,  skinless  and  bilious,  was  ill  qualified  to  join  in 
the  rough  game  of  politics.     He  kept  out  of  the  arena  where 
the  hardest  blows  were  given  and  taken,  and  confined  his 
activity   to    lobbies  and  backstairs,  where  scandal  was  to 
be  gathered  and  the  hidden  wires  of  intrigue  to  be  delicately 
manipulated.     He  chuckles  irrepressibly  when  he  has  con- 
fided a  secret  to  a  friend,  who  has  let  it  out  to  a  minister, 
who  communicates  it  to  a  great  personage,  who  explodes 


HORACE    WALFOLE  355 

into  inextinguishable  wrath,  and  blows  a  whole  elaborate 
plot  into  a  thousand  fragments.  To  expect  deep  and 
settled  political  principle  from  such  a  man  would  be  to 
look  for  grapes  from  thorns  and  figs  from  thistles  ;  but  to 
do  Walpole  justice,  we  must  add  that  it  would  be  equally 
absurd  to  exact  settled  principle  from  any  politician  of  that 
age.  We  are  beginning  to  regard  our  ancestors  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  contempt  and  envy.  We  despise  them 
because  they  cared  nothing  for  the  thoughts  which  for  the 
last  century  have  been  upheavmg  society  into  strange  con- 
vulsions ;  we  envy  them  because  they  enjoyed  the  delicious 
calm  which  was  the  product  of  that  indifference.  Wearied 
by  the  incessant  tossing  and  boiling  of  the  torrent  which 
carries  us  away,  we  look  back  with  fond  regret  to  the  little 
backwater  so  far  above  Niagara,  where  scarcely  a  ripple 
marks  the  approaching  rapids.  There  is  a  charm  in  the 
great  solid  old  eighteenth-century  mansions,  which  London 
is  so  rapidly  engulfing,  and  even  about  the  old  red-brick 
churches  with  '  sleep-compelling '  pews.  We  take  imaginary 
naps  amongst  our  grandfathers  with  no  railways,  no  tele- 
graphs, no  mobs  in  Trafalgar  Square,  no  discussions  about 
ritualism  or  Dr.  Colenso,  and  no  reports  of  parliamentary 
debates.  It  is  to  our  fancies  an  '  island  valley  of  Avilion,' 
or,  less  magniloquently,  a  pleasant  land  of  Cockaine,  where 
we  may  sleep  away  the  disturbance  of  battle,  and  even  read 
through  '  Clarissa  Harlowe.'  We  could  put  up  with  an 
occasional  highwayman  in  Hyde  Park,  and  perhaps  do  not 
think  that  our  comfort  would  be  seriously  disturbed  by  a 
dozen  executions  in  a  morning  at  Tyburn.  In  such  visionary 
glances  through  the  centuries  we  have  always  the  advantage 
of  selecting  our  own  position  in  life,  and  perhaps  there  are 
few  that  for  such  purposes  we  should  prefer  to  Walpole's.    We 

A  A  2 


356  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

should  lap  ourselves  against  eating  cares  in  the  warm  folds 
of  a  sinecure  of  6,000/.  a  year  bestowed  because  our  father 
was  a  Prime  Minister.    There  are  many  immaculate  persons 
at  the  present  day  to  whom  truth  would  be  truth  even  when 
seen  through  such  a  medium.    There  are — we  have  their  own 
authority  for  believing  it— men  who  would  be  republicans, 
though  their  niece  was  married  to  a  royal  duke.     Walpole, 
we  must  admit,  was  not  one  of  the  number.     He  was  an 
aristocrat  to  the  backbone.     He  was  a  gossip  by  nature 
and  education,  and  had  lived  from  infancy  in  the  sacred 
atmosphere  of  court  intrigue  ;  every  friend  he  possessed  in 
his  ov/n  rank   either  had  a  place,  or  had  lost  a  place,  or 
was  in  want  of  a  place,  and  generally  combined  all  three 
characters  ;  professed  indifference  to  place  was  only  a  cun- 
ning mode  of  anghng  for  a  place,  and  politics  was  a  series 
of  ingeniously-contrived  manoeuvres  in  which  the  moving 
power  of  the  machinery  was  the  desire  of  sharing  the  spoils. 
Walpole's  talk  about  Magna  Charta  and  the  execution  of 
Charles  I.  could,  it  is  plain,  imply  but  a  skin-deep  republic- 
anism.    He  could  not  be  seriously  displeased  with  a  state 
of  things  of  which  his  own  position  was  the  natural  out- 
growth.    His  republicanism  was  about  as  genuine  as  his 
boasted  indifference  to  money — a  virtue  which  is  not  rare  in 
bachelors  who  have  more  than  they  can  spend.     So  long  as 
he  could  buy  as  much  bric-a-brac,  as  many  knicknacks,  and 
old  books  and  bronzes  and  curious  portraits  and  odd  gloves 
of  celebrated  characters  as  he  pleased  ;  add  a  new  tower 
and  a  S3t  of  battlements  to  Strawberry  Hill  every  few  years  ; 
keep  a  comfortable  house  in  London,  and  have  a  sufficiency 
of  carriages  and  horses  ;  treat  himself  to  an  occasional  tour, 
and  keep  his  press  steadily  at  w'ork  ;  he  was  not  the  man  to 
complain  of  poverty.    He  was  a  republican,  too,  as  long  as  that 


HORACE    WALPOLE  y^-j 

word  implied  that  he  and  his  father  and  uncles  and  cousins 
and  connections  by  marriage  and  their  intimate  friends  were 
to  have  everything  precisely  their  own  way  ;  but  if  a  vision 
could  have  shown  him  the  reformers  of  a  coming  generation 
who  would  inquire  into  civil  lists  and  object  to  sinecures — 
to  say  nothing  of  cutting  off  the  heads  of  the  first  families- 
he  would  have  prayed  to  be  removed  before  the  evil  day. 
Republicanism  in  his  sense  was  a  word  exclusive  of  revolution. 
Was   it,  then,  a  mere  meaningless  mask  intended   only   to 
conceal  the  real  man  ?     Before  passing  such  a  judgment  we 
should  remember  that  the  names  by  which  people  classify 
their  opinions  are  generally  little  more  than  arbitrary  badges  ; 
and  even  in  these  days,  when  practice  treads  so  closely  on 
the  heels  of  theory,  some  persons  profess  to  know  extreme 
radicals  who  could  be  converted  very  speedily  by  a  bit  of 
riband.     Walpole  has  explained  himself  with  unmistakable 
frankness,  and  his  opinion  was  at  least  intelligible.     He  was 
not   a   republican   after    the    fashion    of    Robespierre,  or 
Jefferson,  or    M.  Gambetta;  but   he   had   some    meaning. 
When  a  duke  in  those  days  proposed  annual  parliaments 
and   universal  suffrage,  we  may  assume  that    he   did   not 
realise    the    probable   effect    of    those    institutions    upon 
dukes ;  and  when  Walpole  applauded  the  regicides,  he  was 
not  anxious  to  send  George  III.  to  the  block.     He  meant, 
however,  that  he  considered  George  HI.  to  be  a  narrow- 
minded  and  obstinate  fool.     He  meant,  too,  that  the  great 
Revolution  families  ought  to  distribute  the  plunder  and  the 
power  without  interference  from  the  Elector  of  Hanover. 
He  meant,  again,  that  as  a  quick  and  cynical  observer,  he 
found  the  names  of  Brutus  and  Algernon  Sidney  very  con- 
venient covers  for  attacking  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  and  the 
Earl   of  Bute.     But  beyond  all   this,  he  meant   something 


358  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

more,  which  gives  the  real  spice  to  his  writings.  It  was 
something  not  quite  easy  to  put  into  formulas ;  but  charac- 
teristic of  the  vague  discomfort  of  the  holders  of  sinecures 
in  those  halcyon  days  arising  from  the  perception  that  the 
ground  was  hollow  under  their  feet.  To  understand  him 
we  must  remember  that  the  period  of  his  activity  marks 
precisely  the  lowest  ebb  of  political  principle.  Old  issues 
had  been  settled,  and  the  new  ones  were  only  just  coming 
to  the  surface.  He  saw  the  end  of  the  Jacobites  and  the 
rise  of  the  demagogues.  His  early  letters  describe  the 
advance  of  the  Pretender  to  Derby  ;  they  tell  us  how  the 
British  public  was  on  the  whole  inclined  to  look  on  and 
cry,  '  Fight  dog,  fight  bear  ; '  how  the  Jacobites  who  had 
anything  to  lose  left  their  battle  to  be  fought  by  half-starved 
cattle-stealers,  and  contented  themselves  with  drinking  to 
the  success  of  the  cause  ;  and  how  the  Whig  magnates, 
with  admirable  presence  of  mind,  raised  regiments,  ap- 
pointed officers,  and  got  the  expenses  paid  by  the  Crown. 
His  later  letters  describe  the  amazing  series  of  blunders  by 
which  we  lost  America  in  spite  of  the  clearest  warnings  from 
almost  every  man  of  sense  in  the  kingdom.  The  interval 
between  these  disgraceful  epochs  is  filled — if  we  except  the 
brief  episode  of  Chatham — by  a  series  of  struggles  between 
different  connections — one  cannot  call  them  parties—which 
separate  and  combine,  and  fight  and  make  peace,  till  the 
plot  of  the  drama  becomes  too  complicated  for  human 
ingenuity  to  unravel.  Lads  just  crammed  for  a  civil  service 
examination  might  possibly  bear  in  mind  all  the  shifting 
combinations  which  resulted  from  the  endless  intrigues  of 
Pelhams  and  Grenvilles  and  Bedfords  and  Rockinghams  ; 
yet  even  those  omniscient  persons  could  hardly  give  a 
plausible  account  of  the  principles  which  each  party  con- 


HORACE    W A  LP  OLE  359 

ceived  itself  to  be  maintaining.  What,  for  example,  were 
the  politics  of  a  Rigby,  or  a  Bubb  Dodington  ?  The  diary 
in  which  the  last  of  these  eminent  persons  reveals  his 
inmost  soul  is  perhaps  the  most  curious  specimen  of 
unconscious  self-analysis  extant.  His  utter  baseness  and 
venality,  his  disgust  at  the  '  low  venal  wretches  '  to  whom 
he  had  to  give  bribes  ;  his  creeping  and  crawling  before 
those  from  whom  he  sought  to  extract  bribes  ;  his  utter 
incapacity  to  explain  a  great  man  except  on  the  hypothesis 
of  insanity  ;  or  to  understand  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
political  morality,  derive  double  piquancy  from  the  profound 
conviction  that  he  is  an  ornament  to  society,  and  from  the 
pious  aspirations  which  he  utters  with  the  utmost  simplicity. 
Bubb  wriggled  himself  into  a  peerage,  and  differed  from 
innumerable  competitors  only  by  superior  frankness.  He 
is  the  fitting  representative  of  an  era  from  which  political 
faith  has  disappeared,  as  Walpole  is  its  fitting  satirist.  All 
political  virtue,  it  is  said,  was  confined,  in  Walpole's  opinion, 
to  Conway  and  the  Marquis  of  Hertford.  Was  he  wrong  ? 
or,  if  he  was  wrong,  was  it  not  rather  in  the  exception  than 
the  rule?  The  dialect  in  which  his  sarcasms  are  expressed 
is  affected,  but  the  substance  is  hard  to  dispute.  The 
world,  he  is  fond  of  saying,  is  a  tragedy  to  those  who  feel,  a 
comedy  to  those  who  think.  He  preferred  the  comedy 
view.  '  I  have  never  yet  seen  or  heard,'  he  says,  '  anything 
serious  that  was  not  ridiculous.  Jesuits,  Methodists,  philo- 
sophers, politicians,  the  hypocrite  Rousseau,  the  scoffer 
Voltaire,  the  encyclopedists,  the  Humes,  the  Lytteltons,  the 
Grenvilles,  the  atheist  tyrant  of  Prussia,  and  the  mounte- 
bank of  history,  Mr.  Pitt,  are  all  to  me  but  impostors  in 
their  various  ways.  Fame  or  interest  is  their  object,  and 
after  all  their  parade,  I  think  a  ploughman  who  sows,  reads 


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his   almanack,  and  believes  that   the   stars   are   so   many 
farthing  candles  created  to  prevent  his  falling  into  a  ditch 
as  he  goes  home  at  night,  a  wiser  and  more  rational  being, 
and  I  am  sure  an  honester,  than  any  of  them.     Oh!    I  am 
sick  of  visions  and  systems  that  shove  one  another  aside, 
and  come  again  like  figures  in  a  moving  picture.'    Probably 
Walpole's  belief  in  the  ploughman  lasted  till  he  saw  the 
next  smock-frock ;  but  the  bitterness  clothed  in  the  old- 
fashioned  cant  is  serious  and  is  justifiable  enough.     Here 
is  a  picture  of  English  politics  in  the  time  of  Wilkes.     'No 
government,  no  police,  London  and  Middlesex  distracted, 
the  colonies  in  rebellion,  Ireland  ready  to  be  so,  and  France 
arrogant  and  on  the  point  of  being  hostile  !     Lord  Bute 
accused  of  all,   and  dying  in  a  panic ;    George  Grenville 
wanting  to  make  rage  desperate  ;  Lord  Rockingham  and 
the  Cavendishes  thinking  we  have  no  enemies  but  Lord 
Bute,  and  that  five  mutes  and  an  epigram  can  set  every- 
thing to  rights ;  the  Duke  of  Grafton  (then  Prime  Minister) 
like  an  apprentice,  thinking  the  world  should  be  postponed 
to  a  horse-race  ;  and  the  Bedfords  not  caring  what  disgraces 
we  undergo  while  each  of  them  has  3,000/.  a  year  and  three 
thousand  bottles  of  claret  and  champagne  ! '     And  every 
word  of  this  is  true— at  least,  so  far  as  epigrams  need  be 
true.     It  is  difficult  to  put  into  more  graphic  language  the 
symptoms  of  an  era  just  ripe  for  revolution.     If  frivolous 
himself,  Walpole  can  condemn  the  frivolity  of  others.     '  Can 
one  repeat  common  news  with  indifference,'  he  asks,  just 
after   the    surrender   of  Yorktown,    '  while   our   shame   is 
writing  for  future  history  by  the  pens  of  all  our  numerous 
enemies?     When  did  England  see  two  whole  armies  lay 
down  their  arms  and  surrender  themselves  prisoners  ?  .  .  . 
These  arc  thoughts  I  cannot    stifle    at    the    moment  that 


HORACE    W A  LP  OLE  361 

expresses  them  ;  and,  though  I  do  not  doubt  that  the  same 
dissipation    that    has  swallowed  up  all  our  principles  will 
reign  again  in  ten  days  with  its  wonted  sovereignty,  I  had 
rather  be  silent  than  vent  my  indignation.     Yet  I  cannot 
talk,  for  I  cannot  think,  on  any  other  subject.     It  was  not 
six  days  ago  that,  in  the  height  of  four  raging  wars  (with 
America,  France,  Spain,  and  Holland),  I  saw  in  the  papers 
an  account  of  the  opera  and  of  the  dresses  of  the  company, 
and  hence  the  town,  and  thence,  of  course,  the  who!e  nation, 
were  informed  that  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  had  very  little  powder 
in  his  hair.'     Walpole  sheltered  himself  behind  the  corner 
of  a  pension  to  sneer  at  the  tragi-comedy  of  life  ;  but  if  his 
feelings  were  not  profound,  they  were  quick  and  genuine, 
and,  affectation  for  affectation,  his  cynical  coxcombry  seems 
preferable  to  the  solemn  coxcombry  of  the  men  who  shame- 
lessly wrangled  for  plunder,  while  they  talked  solemn  plati- 
tudes about  sacred  Whig  principles  and  the  thrice-blessed 
British  Constitution. 

Walpole,  in  fact,  represents  a  common  creed  amongst 
comfortable  but  clear-headed  men  of  his  time.  It  was  the 
strange  mixture  of  scepticism  and  conservatism  which  is 
exemplified  in  such  men  as  Hume  and  Gibbon.  He  was  at 
heart  a  Voltairian,  and,  like  his  teacher,  confounded  all 
religions  and  political  beliefs  under  the  name  of  supersti- 
tion. Voltaire  himself  did  not  anticipate  the  Revolution  to 
which  he,  more  than  any  man,  had  contributed.  Walpole, 
with  stronger  personal  reasons  than  Voltaire  for  disliking  a 
catastrophe,  was  as  furious  as  Burke  when  the  volcano  burst 
forth.  He  was  a  republican  so  far  as  he  disbelieved  in  the 
divine  right  of  kings,  and  hated  enthusiasm  and  loyalty 
generally.  He  wished  the  form  to  survive  and  the  spirit 
to  disappear.     Things  were  rotten,  and  he  wished  them  to 


362  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

stay  rotten.     The  ideal  to  which  he  is  constantly  recurring 
was  the  pleasant  reign  of  his  father,  when  nobody  made  a 
fuss  or  went  to  war,  or  kept  principles  except  for  sale.     He 
foresaw,  however,  far   better  than  most  men,  the  coming 
crash.     If  political  sagacity  be  fairly  tested  by  a  prophetic 
vision  of  the  French  Revolution,  Walpole's  name  should 
stand  high.     He  visited  Paris  in   1765,  and  remarks  that 
laughing  is  out  of  fashion.     *  Good  folks,  they  have  no  time 
to  laugh.     There  is  God  and  the  King  to  be  pulled  down 
first,  and  men  and  women,  one  and  all,  are  devoutly  em- 
ployed in  the  demolition.     They  think  me  quite  profane  for 
having  any  belief  left.'     Do  you  know,  he  asks  presently, 
who  are  the  philosophers?     *In  the  first  place,  it  compre- 
hends almost  everybody,  and  in  the  next  it  means  men 
who,   avowing   war  against   Papacy,  aim,   many   of  them, 
at  the  destruction  of  regal  power.     The  philosophers,'  he 
goes  on,   'are  insupportable,  superficial,  overbearing,  and 
fanatic.     They  preach  incessantly,  and  their  avowed  doc- 
trine is  atheism — you  could  not  believe  how  openly.     Don't 
wonder,  therefore,  if  I  should  return  a  Jesuit.      Voltaire 
himself  does  not  satisfy  them.     One  of  their  lady  devotees 
said  of  him,  "  //  est  bigot,  c'est  un  deiste  !  "  '  French  politics, 
he  professes  a  few  years  afterwards,  must  end  in  '  despotism, 
a  civil  war,  or  assassination,'  and  he  remarks  that  the  age 
will  not,  as  he  had  always  thought,  be  an  age  of  abortion, 
but  rather  'the  age  of  seeds  that  are  to  produce  strange 
crops    hereafter.'      The   next  century,   he   says  at  a  later 
period,  'will  probably  exhibit  a  very  new  era,  which  the 
close  of  this  has  been,  and  is,  preparing.'     If  these  sen- 
tences had  been  uttered  by  Burke,  they  would  have  been 
quoted  as  proofs  of  remarkable  sagacity.     As  it  is,  we  may 
surely  call  them  shrewd  glances  for  a  frivolous  coxcomb. 


HORACE    W A  LP  OLE  363 

Walpole  regarded  these  symptoms  in  the  true  epicurean 
spirit,  and  would  have  joined  in  the  sentiment,  apres  moi  le 
deluge.  He  was  on  the  whole  for  remedying  grievances, 
and  is  put  rather  out  of  temper  by  cruelties  which  cannot 
be  kept  out  of  his  sight.  He  talks  with  disgust  of  the  old 
habit  of  stringing  up  criminals  by  the  dozen  ;  he  denounces 
the  slave-trade  with  genuine  fervour  ;  there  is  apparent  sin- 
cerity in  his  platitudes  against  war ;  and  he  never  took  so 
active  a  part  in  politics  as  in  the  endeavour  to  prevent  the 
judicial  murder  of  Byng.  His  conscience  generally  dis- 
charged itself  more  easily  by  a  few  pungent  epigrams,  and 
though  he  wished  the  reign  of  reason  and  humanity  to 
dawn,  he  would  rather  that  it  should  not  come  at  all  than  be 
ushered  in  by  a  tempest.  His  whole  theory  is  given  forci- 
bly and  compactly  in  an  answer  which  he  once  made  to  the 
republican  Mrs.  Macaulay,  and  was  fond  of  repeating  : — 
'  Madam,  if  I  had  been  Luther,  and  could  have  known  that 
for  the  chance  of  saving  a  million  of  souls  I  should  be  the 
cause  of  a  million  of  lives,  at  least,  being  sacrificed  before 
my  doctrines  could  be  established,  it  must  have  been  a 
most  palpable  angel,  and  in  a  most  heavenly  livery,  before 
he  should  have  set  me  at  work.'  AVe  will  not  ask  what 
angel  would  have  induced  him  to  make  the  minor  sacrifice 
of  six  thousand  a  year  to  establish  any  conceivable  doctrine. 
Whatever  may  be  the  merit  of  these  opinions,  they  contain 
Walpole's  whole  theory  of  life.  I  know,  he  seems  to  have 
said  to  himself,  that  loyalty  is  folly,  that  rank  is  contemp- 
tible, that  the  old  society  in  which  I  live  is  rotten  to  the 
core,  and  that  explosive  matter  is  accumulating  beneath  our 
feet.  Well  !  I  am  not  made  of  the  stuff  for  a  reformer  :  I 
am  a  bit  of  a  snob,  though,  like  other  snobs,  I  despise  both 
parties  to  the  bargain.     I  will  take  the  sinecures  the  gods 


364  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

provide  me,  amuse  myself  with  my  toys  at  Strawberry  Hill, 
despise  kings  and  ministers,  without  endangering  my  head 
by  attacking  them,  and  be  over-polite  to  a  royal  duke  when 
he  visits  me  on  condition  of  laughing  at  him  behind  his 
back  when  he  is  gone.  Walpole  does  not  deserve  a  statue  ; 
he  was  not  a  VVilberforce  or  a  Howard,  and  as  little  of  a 
Burke  or  a  Chatham.  But  his  faults,  as  well  as  his  virtues, 
qualified  him  to  be  the  keenest  of  all  observers  of  a  society 
unconsciously  approaching  a  period  of  tremendous  convul- 
sions. 

To  claim  for  him  that,  even  at  his  best,  he  is  a  profound 
observer  of  character,  or  that  he  gives  any  consistent  account 
of  his  greatest  contemporaries,  would  be  too  nmch.  He  is 
full  of  whims,  and  moreover,  full  of  spite.  He  cannot  be 
decently  fair  to  anyone  who  deserted  his  father,  or  stood 
in  Conway's  light.  He  reflects  at  all  times  the  irreverent 
gossip  current  behind  the  scenes.  To  know  the  best  and 
the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  any  great  man,  the  best  plan 
is  to  read  the  leading  article  of  his  party  newspaper,  and 
then  to  converse  in  private  with  its  writer.  The  eulogy  and 
the  sarcasm  may  both  be  sincere  enough  ;  only  it  is  pleasant, 
after  puffing  one's  wares  to  the  public,  to  glance  at  their 
seamy  side  in  private.  Walpole  has  a  decided  taste  for 
that  last  point  of  view.  The  littleness  of  the  great,  the 
hypocrisy  of  the  virtuous,  and  the  selfishness  of  statesmen  in 
general,  is  his  ruling  theme,  illustrated  by  an  infinite  variety 
of  brilliant  caricatures  struck  off  at  the  moment  with  a 
quick  eye  and  a  sure  hand.  Though  he  elaborates  no 
grand  historical  portrait,  like  Burke  or  Clarendon,  he  has  a 
whole  gallery  of  telling  vignettes  which  are  often  as  signifi- 
cant as  far  more  pretentious  works.  Nowhere,  for  example, 
can  we  find  more  graphic  sketches  of  the  great  man  who 


HORACE    WALPOLE  365 

stands  a  head  and  shoulders  above  the  whole  generation  of 
dealers  in  power  and  place.  Most  of  Chatham's  contem- 
poraries repaid  his  contempt  with  intense  dislike.  Some  of 
them  pronounced  him  mad,  and  others  thought  him  a 
knave.  Walpole,  who  at  times  calls  him  a  mountebank  and 
an  impostor,  does  not  go  further  than  Burke,  who,  in  a 
curious  comment,  speaks  of  him  as  the  '  grand  artificer  of 
fraud,'  who  never  conversed  hut  with  'a  parcel  of  low  toad- 
eaters  ; '  and  asks  whether  all  this  '  theatrical  stuffing '  and 
these  '  raised  heels  '  could  be  necessary  to  the  character  of 
a  great  man.  Walpole,  of  course,  has  a  keen  eye  to  the 
theatrical  stuffing.  He  takes  the  least  complimentary  view 
of  the  grand  problem,  which  still  puzzles  some  historians,  as 
to  the  genuineness  of  Chatham's  gout.  He  smiles  compla- 
cently when  the  great  actor  forgets  that  his  right  arm  ought 
to  be  lying  helpless  in  a  sling  and  flourishes  it  wiih  his 
accustomed  vigour.  But  Walpole,  in  spite  of  his  sneers  and 
sarcasms,  can  recognise  the  genuine  power  of  the  man. 
He  is  the  describer  of  the  striking  scene  which  occurred 
when  the  House  of  Commons  was  giggling  over  some 
delicious  story  of  bribery  and  corruption — the  House  of 
Commons  was  frivolous  in  those  benighted  days  ;  he  tells 
how  Pitt  suddenly  stalked  down  from  the  gallery  and 
administered  his  thundering  reproof ;  how  Murray,  then 
Attorney-General,  'crouched  silent  and  terrified,'  and  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  faltered  out  an  humble  apology 
for  the  unseemly  levity.  It  is  Walpole  who  best  describes 
the  great  debate  when  Pitt,  '  haughty,  defiant,  conscious  of 
injury  and  supreme  abilities,'  burst  out  in  that  tremendous 
speech — tremendous  if  we  may  believe  the  contemporary 
reports,  of  which  the  only  tolerably  preserved  fragment  is 
the  celebrated  metaphor  about  the  confluence  of  the  Rhone 


366  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

and  the  Saone.  Alas  !  Chatham's  eloquence  has  all  gone 
to  rags  and  tatters  ;  though,  to  say  the  truth,  it  has  only 
gone  the  way  of  nine-tenths  of  our  contemporary  eloquence. 
We  have,  indeed,  what  are  called  accurate  reports  of  spoken 
pamphlets,  dried  specimens  of  rhetoric  from  which  the  life 
has  departed  as  completely  as  it  is  strained  out  of  the 
specimens  in  a  botanical  collection.  If  there  is  no  Walpole 
amongst  us,  we  shall  know  what  our  greatest  living  orator 
has  said  ;  but  how  he  said  it,  and  how  it  moved  his  audience, 
will  be  as  obscure  as  if  the  reporters'  gallery  were  still  un- 
known. Walpole — when  he  was  not  affecting  philosophy, 
or  smarting  from  the  failure  of  an  intrigue,  or  worried  by 
the  gout,  or  disappointed  of  a  bargain  at  a  sale — could 
throw  electric  flashes  of  light  on  the  figure  he  describes 
which  reveal  the  true  man.  He  errs  from  petulancy,  but 
not  from  stupidity.  He  can  appreciate  great  qualities  by 
fits,  though  he  cannot  be  steadily  loyal  to  their  possessor. 
And  if  he  wrote  down  most  of  our  rulers  as  knaves  and 
fools,  we  have  only  to  lower  those  epithets  to  selfish  and 
blundering,  to  get  a  very  fair  estimate  of  their  characters. 
To  the  picturesque  historian  his  services  are  invaluable; 
though  no  single  statement  can  be  accepted  without  careful 
correction. 

Walpole's  social,  as  distinguished  from  his  political, 
anecdotes  do  in  one  sense  what  Leech's  drawings  have  done 
for  this  generation.  But  the  keen  old  man  of  the  world  puts  a 
far  bitterer  and  deeper  meaning  into  his  apparently  superficial 
scratches  than  the  kindly  modern  artist,  whose  satire  was 
narrowed,  if  purified,  by  the  decencies  of  modern  manners. 
Walpole  reflects  in  a  thousand  places  that  strange  combina- 
tion of  brutality  and  polish  which  marked  the  little  circle  of 
fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  then  constituted  society,  and 


HORACE    W ALP  OLE  367 

played  such  queer  pranks  in  quiet  unconsciousness  of  the 
revolutionary  elements  that  were  seething  below.  He  is  the 
best  of  commentators  on  Hogarth,  and  gives  us  '  Clin 
Lane  '  on  one  side  and  the  '  Marriage  a  la  mode  '  on  the 
other.  As  we  turn  over  the  well-known  pages  we  come  at 
every  turn  upon  characteristic  scenes  of  the  great  tragi- 
comedy that  was  being  played  out.  In  one  page  a  high- 
wayman puts  a  bullet  through  his  hat,  and  on  the  next  we 
read  how  three  thousand  ladies  and  gentlemen  visited  the 
criminal  in  his  cell,  on  the  Sunday  before  his  execution,  till 
he  fainted  away  twice  from  the  heat ;  then  we  hear  how  Lord 
Lovat's  buffooneries  made  the  whole  brilliant  circle  laugh 
as  he  was  being  sentenced  to  death  ;  and  how  Balmerino 
pleaded  '  not  guilty,'  in  order  that  the  ladies  might  not 
be  deprived  of  their  sport  ;  how  the  House  of  Commons 
adjourned  to  see  a  play  acted  by  persons  of  quality,  and 
the  gallery  was  hung  round  with  blue  ribands  ;  how  the 
Gunnings  had  a  guard  to  protect  them  in  the  park ;  what 
strange  pranks  were  played  by  the  bigamous  Miss  Chudleigh  ; 
what  jokes — now,  alas  !  very  faded  and  dreary — were  made 
by  George  Selwyn,  and  how  that  amiable  favourite  of  society 
went  to  Paris  in  order  to  see  the  cruel  tortures  inflicted  upon 
Damiens,  and  was  introduced  to  the  chief  performer  on  the 
scaffold  as  a  distinguished  amateur  in  executions.  One 
of  the  best  of  all  these  vignettes  portrays  the  funeral  of 
George  H.,  and  is  a  worthy  pendant  to  Lord  Hervey's  classic 
account  of  the  Queen's  death.  It  opens  with  the  solemn 
procession  to  the  torch-lighted  Abbey,  whose  '  long-drawn 
aisles  and  fretted  vault '  excite  the  imagination  of  the  author 
of  the  'Castle  of  Otranto.'  Then  the  comic  element 
begins  to  intrude  ;  the  procession  jostles  and  falls  into  dis- 
order at  the  entrance  of  Henry  the  Seventh's  Chapel ;  the 


368  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

bearers  stagger  under  the  heavy  coffin  and  cry  for  help  ;  the 
bishop  blunders  in  the  prayers,  and  the  anthem,  as  fit,  says 
Walpole,  for  a  wedding  as  a  funeral,  becomes  immeasurably 
tedious.  Against  this  tragi-comic  background  are  relieved 
two  characteristic  figures.  The  '  butcher '  Duke  of  Cum- 
berland, the  hero  of  Culloden,  stands  with  the  obstinate 
courage  of  his  race  gazing  into  the  vault  where  his  father  is 
being  buried,  and  into  which  he  is  soon  to  descend.  His 
face  is  distorted  by  a  recent  stroke  of  paralysis,  and  he  is 
forced  to  stand  for  two  hours  on  a  bad  leg.  To  him  enters 
the  burlesque  Duke  of  Newcastle,  who  begins  by  bursting 
into  tears  and  throwing  himself  back  in  a  stall  whilst  the 
Archbishop  '  hovers  over  him  with  a  smelling-bottle.' 
Then  curiosity  overcomes  him,  and  he  runs  about  the  chapel 
with  a  spyglass  in  one  hand  to  peer  into  the  faces  of  the 
company,  and  mopping  his  eyes  with  the  other.  '  Then 
returned  the  fear  of  catching  cold  ;  and  the  Duke  of  Cum- 
berland, who  was  sinking  with  heat,  felt  himself  weighed 
down,  and  turning  round  found  it  was  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle standing  upon  his  train  to  avoid  the  chill  of  the 
marble.'  What  a  perch  to  select  !  Imagine  the  contrast 
of  the  two  men,  and  remember  that  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 
was  for  an  unprecedented  time  the  great  dispenser  of  patron- 
age, and  so  far  the  most  important  personage  in  the  govern- 
ment.    Walpole  had  reason  for  some  of  his  sneers. 

The  literary  power  implied  in  these  brilliant  sketches  is 
remarkable,  and  even  if  Walpole's  style  is  more  Gallicised 
than  is  evident  to  me,  it  must  be  confessed  that  with  a  few 
French  idioms  he  has  caught  something  of  that  unrivalled 
dexterity  and  neatness  of  touch  in  which  the  French  are  our 
undisputed  masters.  His  literary  character  is  of  course 
marked  by  an  affectation  analogous  to  that  which  debases 


HORACE    WALPOLE  369 

his  politics.     Walpole  was  always  declaring  with  doubtful 
sincerity— (that  is  one  of  the  matters  in  which  a  man  is 
scarcely  bound  to  be  quite  sincere)— that  he  has  no  ambition 
for  literary  fame,  and  that  he  utterly  repudiates  the  title  of 
*  learned  gentleman.'     There  is  too  much  truth  in  his  dis- 
avowals to  allow  us  to  write  them  down  as  mere  mock- 
modesty  ;  but  doubtless  his  principal  motive  was  a  dislike 
to  entering  the  arena  of  open  criticism.     He  has   much  of 
the  feeling  which  drove  Pope  into  paroxysms  of  unworthy 
fury  on  every  mention  of  Grub  Street.     The  anxiety  of  men 
in  that  day  to  disavow  the  character  of  professional  authors 
must  be  taken  with  the  fact  that  professional  authors  were 
then  an  unscrupulous,  scurrilous,  and  venal  race.     Walpole 
feared  collision  with  them  as  he  feared  collision  with  the 
'  mountains  of  roast  beef.'     Though  literature  was  emerg- 
ing  from    the   back   lanes    and   alleys,    the    two   greatest 
potentates  of  the  day,  Johnson  and  Warburton,  had  both 
a  decided  cross  of  the  bear  in  their  composition.     Walpole 
was  nervously  anxious  to  keep  out  of  their  jurisdiction,  and 
to  sit  at  the  feet  of  such  refined  lawgivers  as  Mason  and 
Gray,  or  the  feebler  critics  of  polite  society.     In  such  courts 
there  naturally  passes  a  good  deal  of  very  flimsy  flattery 
between  persons  who  are  alternately  at  the  bar  or  on  the 
bench.     We  do  not  quite  believe  that  Lady  Di  Beauclerk's 
drawings  were  unsurpassable  by  'Salvator  Rosa  and  Guido,' 
or  that  Lady  Ailesbury's  'landscape  in    worsteds'  was   a 
work  of  high  art  ;  and  we  doubt  whether  ^V^alpole  believed 
it ;  nor  do  we  fancy  that  he  expected  Sir  Horace  Mann  to 
believe  that  when  sitting  in  his  room  at  Strawberry  Hill,  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  apostrophising  the  setting  sun  in  such 
terms  as  these  :  *  Look  at  yon  sinking  beams  !     His  gaudy 
reign  is  over  ;  but  the  silver  moon  aljove  that  elm  succeeds 

VOL.   I.  B  B 


370  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

to  a  tranquil  horizon,'  &c.  Sweeping  aside  all  this  super- 
ficial rubbish,  as  a  mere  concession  to  the  faded  taste  of  the 
age  of  hoops  and  wigs,  Walpole  has  something  to  say  for 
himself.  He  has  been  condemned  for  the  absurdity  of  his 
criticisms,  and  it  is  undeniable  that  he  sometimes  blunders 
strangely.  It  would,  indeed,  be  easy  to  show,  were  it  worth 
while,  that  he  is  by  no  means  so  silly  in  his  contemporary 
verdicts  as  might  be  supposed  from  scattered  passages  in  his 
letters.  But  what  are  we  to  say  to  a  man  who  compares 
Dante  to  '  a  Methodist  parson  in  Bedlam  '  ?  The  first 
answer  is  that,  in  this  instance,  Walpole  was  countenanced 
by  greater  men.  Voltaire,  with  all  his  faults  the  most  con- 
summate literary  artist  of  the  century,  says  with  obvious 
disgust  that  there  are  people  to  be  found  who  force  them- 
selves to  admire  '  feats  of  imagination  as  stupidly  extravagant 
and  barbarous '  as  those  of  the  '  Divina  Commedia.'  Walpole 
must  be  reckoned  as  belonging  both  in  his  faults  and  his 
merits  to  the  \'oltairian  school  of  literature,  and  amongst 
other  peculiarities  common  to  the  master  and  his  disciple, 
may  be  counted  an  incapacity  for  reverence  and  an  intense 
dislike  to  being  bored.  For  these  reasons  he  hates  all  epic 
poets,  from  Dante  to  Blackmore  ;  he  detests  all  didactic 
poems,  including  those  of  Thomson  and  Akenside  ;  and  he 
is  utterly  scandalised  by  the  French  enthusiasm  for  Richard- 
son. In  these  last  judgments,  at  least  nine-tenths  of  the 
existing  race  of  mankind  agree  with  him  ;  though  few  people 
have  the  courage  to  express  their  agreement  in  print.  W^e 
may  be  thankful  that  Walpole  is  as  incapable  of  boring  as 
of  enduring  bores.  He  is  one  of  the  few  Englishmen  who 
share  the  quality  sometimes  ascribed  to  the  French  as  a 
nation,  and  certainly  enjoyed  by  his  teacher,  Voltaire  ; 
namely,  that  though  they  may  be  frivolous,  blasphemous. 


HORACE    W A  LP  OLE  371 

indecent,  and  faulty  in  every  other  way,  they  can  never  for 
a  single  moment  be  dull.  His  letters  show  that  crisp, 
sparkling  quality  of  style  which  accompanies  this  power,  and 
which  is  so  unattainable  to  most  of  his  countrymen.  The 
quality  is  less  conspicuous  in  the  rest  of  his  works,  and  the 
light  verses  and  essays  in  which  we  might  expect  him  to 
succeed  are  disappointingly  weak.  Xoho's  letter  to  his 
countrymen  is  now  as  dull  as  the  work  of  most  imaginary 
travellers,  and  the  essays  in  '  The  World '  are  remarkably 
inferior  to  the  '  Spectator,'  to  say  nothing  of  the  '  Ram- 
bler.' '  Yet  Walpole's  place  in  literature  is  unmistakable,  if 
of  equivocal  merit.  Byron  called  him  the  author  of  the  last 
tragedy  and  the  first  romance  in  our  language.  The  tragedy, 
with  Byron's  leave,  is  revolting  (perhaps  the  reason  why 
Byron  admired  it),  and  the  romance  passes  the  borders  of 
the  burlesque.  And  yet  the  remark  hits  off  a  singular  point 
in  Walpole's  history.  A  thorough  child  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  we  might  have  expected  him  to  share  Voltaire's 
indiscriminating  contempt  for  the  Middle  Ages.  One  would 
have  supposed  that  in  his  lips,  as  in  those  of  all  his  gene- 
ration, Gothic  would  have  been  synonymous  with  barbaric, 
and  the  admiration  of  an  ancient  abbey  as  ridiculous  as 
admiration  of  Dante.  So  far  from  which,  Walpole  is  almost 
the  first  modern  Englishman  who  found  out  that  our  old 
cathedrals  were  really  beautiful.  He  discovered  that  a  most 
charming  toy  might  be  made  of  mediasvalism.  Strawberry 
Hill,  with  all  its  gimcracks,  its  pasteboard  battlements,  and 
stained-paper  carvings,  was  the  lineal  ancestor  of  the  new 
law-courts.      The  restorers  of  churches,  the  manufacturers 

'  It  is  odd  that  in  one  of  these  papers  Walpole  proposes,  in  jest, 
precisely  our  modern  system  of  postage  cards,  only  charging  a  penny 
instead  of  a  halfpenny. 


372  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

of  stained  glass,  the  modern  decorators  and  architects  of  all 
vanities,  the  Ritualists  and  the  High  Church  party,  should 
think  of  him  with  kindness.  It  cannot  be  said  that  they 
should  give  him  a  place  in  their  calendar,  for  he  was  not 
of  the  stuff  of  which  saints  are  made.  It  was  a  very  thin 
veneering  of  mediaevalism  which  covered  his  modern  creed  ; 
and  the  mixture  is  not  particularly  edifying.  Still  he  un- 
doubtedly found  out  that  charming  plaything  which,  in  other 
hands,  has  been  elaborated  and  industriously  constructed  till 
it  is  all  but  indistinguishable  from  the  genuine  article.  We 
must  hold,  indeed,  that  it  is  merely  a  plaything,  when  all 
has  been  said  and  done,  and  maintain  that  when  the  root 
has  once  been  severed,  the  tree  can  never  again  be  made  to 
grow.  Walpole  is  so  far  better  than  some  of  his  successors, 
that  he  did  not  make  a  religion  out  of  these  flimsy  materials. 
How'ever  that  may  be,  Walpole's  trifling  was  the  first  fore- 
runner of  much  that  has  occupied  the  minds  of  much  greater 
artists  ever  since.  And  thus  his  initiative  in  literature  has 
been  as  fruitful  as  his  initiative  in  art.  The  '  Castle  of 
Otranto '  and  the  '  Mysterious  Mother '  were  the  progeni- 
tors of  Mrs.  Radclifle's  romances,  and  probably  had  a  strong 
influence  upon  the  author  of  '  Ivanhoe.'  Frowning  castles 
and  gloomy  monasteries,  knights  in  armour,  and  ladies  in 
distress,  and  monks  and  nuns  and  hermits,  all  the  scenery 
and  the  characters  that  have  peopled  the  imagination  of  the 
romantic  school,  may  be  said  to  have  had  their  origin  on  the 
night  when  Walpole  lay  down  to  sleep,  his  head  crammed 
full  of  Wardour  Street  curiosities,  and  dreamt  that  he  saw  a 
gigantic  hand  in  aimour  resting  on  the  banister  of  his  stair- 
case. In  three  months  from  that  time  he  had  elaborated  a 
story,  the  object  of  which,  as  defined  by  himself,  was  to 
combine  the  charms  of  the  old  romance  and  the  modern 


HORACE    W ALP  OLE  373 

novel,  and  which,  to  say  the  least,  strikes  us  now  like  an 
exaggerated  caricature  of  the  later  school.     Scott  criticises 
'  The   Castle   of  Otranto '    seriously,   and   even  Macaulay 
speaks  of  it  with  a  certain  respect.     Absurd  as  the  burlesque 
seems,  our  ancestors  found  it  amusing,  and,  what  is  stranger, 
awe-inspiring.     Excitable  readers  shuddered  when  a  helmet 
of  more  than  gigantic  size  fell  from  the  clouds,  in  the  first 
chapter,  and  crushed  the  young  baron  to  atoms  on  the  eve 
of  his  wedding,  as  a  trap  smashes  a  mouse.     This,  however, 
was  merely  a  foretaste  of  a  series  of  unprecedented  pheno- 
mena.    At  one  moment  the  portrait  of  Manfred's  grandfather, 
without  the  least  premonitory  warning,  utters  a  deep  sigh, 
and  heaves  its  breast,  after  which  it  descends  to  the  floor 
with   a  grave  and  melancholy  air.     Presently  the  menials 
catch  sight  of  a  leg  and  foot  in  armour  to  match  the  helmet, 
and  apparently  belonging  to  a  ghost  w^hich  has  lain  down 
promiscuously  in  the  picture  gallery.     Most  appalling,  how- 
ever, of  all  is  the  adventure   which  happened   to    Count 
Frederick  in  the  oratory.     Kneeling  before  the  altar  was  a 
tall  figure  in  a  long  cloak.     As  he  approached  it  rose,  and, 
turning  round,  disclosed  to  him  the  fleshless  jaws  and  empty 
eye-sockets  of  a  skeleton.     The  ghost  disappeared,  as  ghosts 
generally  do,  after  giving  a  perfectly  unnecessary  warning, 
and  the  catastrophe  is  soon  reached  by  the  final  appearance 
of  the  whole  suit  of  armour  with  the  ghost  inside  it,  who 
bursts  the  castle  to  bits    like  an  egg-shell,   and,  towering 
towards   the  sky,  exclaims,   'Theodore  is  the  true  heir  of 
Alphonso  ! '     This   proceeding  fortunately  made  a  lawsuit 
unnecessary,  and  if  the  castle  was  ruined  at  once,  it  is  not 
quite   impossible   that  the    same  result   might   have   been 
attained  more  slowly  by  litigation.     The  whole  machinery 
strikes  us  as  simply  babyish,  unless  we  charitably  assume 


374  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

the  whole  to  be  intentionally  burlesque.  The  intention  is 
pretty  evident  in  the  solemn  scene  in  the  chapel,  which 
closes  thus  : — '  As  he  spake  these  words,  three  drops  of 
blood  fell  from  the  nose  of  Alphonso's  statue  '  (Alphonso 
is  the  spectre  in  armour).  '  Manfred  turned  pale,  and 
the  princess  sank  on  her  knees.  "  Behold  !  "  said  the  friar, 
"  mark  this  miraculous  indication  that  the  blood  of  Alphonso 
will  never  mix  with  that  of  Manfred  ! "  '  Nor  can  we  think 
that  the  story  is  rendered  much  more  interesting  by  Walpole's 
simple  expedient  of  introducing  into  the  midst  of  these 
portents  a  set  of  waiting-maids  and  peasants,  who  talk  in  the 
familiar  style  of  the  smart  valets  in  Congreve's  or  Sheridan's 
comedies. 

Yet,  babyish  as  this  mass  of  nursery  tales  may  appear 
to  us,  it  is  curious  that  the  theory  which  Walpole  advocated 
has  been  exactly  carried  out.  He  wished  to  relieve  the 
prosaic  realism  of  the  school  of  Fielding  and  Smollett  by 
making  use  of  romantic  associations  without  altogether 
taking  leave  of  the  language  of  common  life.  He  sought  to 
make  real  men  and  women  out  of  mediaeval  knights  and 
ladies,  or,  in  other  words,  he  made  a  first  experimental  trip 
into  the  province  afterwards  occupied  by  Scott.  The 
'Mysterious  Mother'  is  in  the  same  taste;  and  his 
interest  in  Ossian,  in  Chatterton,  and  in  Percy's  Relics,  is 
another  proof  of  his  anticipation  of  the  coming  change  of 
sentiment.  He  was  an  arrant  trifler,  it  is  true  ;  too  deli- 
cately constituted  for  real  work  in  literature  and  politics, 
and  inclined  to  take  a  cynical  view  of  his  contemporaries 
generally,  he  turned  for  amusement  to  antiquarianism,  and 
was  the  first  to  set  modern  art  and  literature  masquerading 
in  the  antique  dresses.     That  he  was  quite  conscious  of  the 


HORACE    W ALP  OLE  375 

necessity  for  more  serious  study  appears  in  his  letters,  in 
one  of  which,  for  example,  he  proposes  a  systematic  history 
of  Gothic  architecture,  such  as  has  since  been  often  enough 
executed.  It  does  not,  it  may  be  said,  require  any  great 
intellect,  or  even  any  exquisite  taste,  for  a  fine  gentleman 
to  strike  out  a  new  line  of  dilettante  amusement.  In  truth, 
Walpole  has  no  pretensions  whatever  to  be  regarded  as  a 
great  original  creator,  or  even  as  one  of  the  few  infallible 
critics.  The  only  man  of  his  time  who  had  some  claim 
to  that  last  title  was  his  friend  Gray,  who  shared  his  Gothic 
tastes  with  greatly  superior  knowledge.  But  he  was  indefi- 
nitely superior  to  the  great  mass  of  commonplace  writers, 
who  attain  a  kind  of  bastard  infallibility  by  always  ac- 
cepting the  average  verdict  of  the  time  ;  which,  on 
the  principle  of  the  "nox  popiili^  is  more  often  right  than 
that  of  any  dissenter.  There  is  an  intermediate  class  of 
men  who  are  useful  as  sensitive  barometers  to  foretell 
coming  changes  of  opinion.  Their  intellects  are  mobile 
if  shallow  ;  and  perhaps  their  want  of  serious  interest  in 
contemporary  intellects  renders  them  more  accessible  to  the 
earliest  symptoms  of  superficial  shiftings  of  taste.  They 
are  anxious  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  fashions  in  thought  as 
well  as  in  dress,  and  pure  love  of  novelty  serves  to  some 
extent  in  place  of  genuine  originality.  Amongst  such  men 
Walpole  deserves  a  high  place  ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  obtain 
a  high  place  even  amongst  such  men.  The  people 
who  succeed  best  at  trifles  are  those  who  are  capable  of 
something  better.  In  spite  of  Johnson's  aphorism,  it  is  the 
colossus  who,  v,'hen  he  tries,  can  cut  the  best  heads  upon 
cherry-stones,  as  well  as  hew  statues  out  of  rock.  Walpole 
was  no  colossus ;  but   his  peevish   anxiety  to  affect  even 


376  HOURS  IN  A   LIBRARY 

more  frivolity  than  was  really  natural  to  him,  has  blinded 
his  critics  to  the  real  power  of  a  remarkably  acute,  versatile, 
and  original  intellect.  We  cannot  regard  him  with  much 
respect,  and  still  less  with  much  affection  ;  but  the  more 
we  examine  his  work,  the  more  we  shall  admire  his  extreme 
cleverness. 


END    OF    THE    FIRST    VOLUME 


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